


For Theirs is the Kingdom of Heaven

by BlessedBetheFruit93



Category: The Handmaid's Tale (TV)
Genre: Abortion, Anti-Choice, Climate Change, Escape, Female Genital Mutilation, Feminism, Handmaid - Freeform, Handmaid's Tale - Freeform, I both love and hate Aunt Lydia, LGBT, Margaret Atwood - Freeform, Mention of Child Abuse, Molestation, Persecution, Theocracy, anti-gay, bruce miller - Freeform, if that's possible, my version of how season 3 would go, rules get even more stringent for Handmaids, six chapters in and I haven't updated the tags wtf, totalitarianism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-18
Updated: 2019-05-30
Packaged: 2019-10-11 23:04:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 12
Words: 34,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17455970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlessedBetheFruit93/pseuds/BlessedBetheFruit93
Summary: "Blessed are you when men hate you, and when they exclude you and revile you, and cast out your name as evil, on account of the Son of man! Rejoice in that day, and leap for joy, for behold, your reward is great in heaven; for so their fathers did to the prophets."My continuation of The Handmaid's Tale, to tide me over before JUNE comes around. I understand the point of waiting until June, because...June Osborne, but really, JUNE???Chapters 11 and 12 are new as of 5/30/2019. Keep up with me by following my Twitter @LadyChelseaofVA.





	1. Iridescent

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [other stuff I've written](https://vocal.media/authors/cd-turner)
> 
> [Twitter](https://twitter.com/LadyChelseaofVA)
> 
> Edit: Doing some cleanup, just some typos and missing words.

1\. Iridescent

_When you were standing in the wake of devastation_

_When you were waiting on the edge of the unknown_

_And with the cataclysm raining down, insides crying save me now_

_You were there impossibly alone…_

_“Iridescent” – Linkin Park_

_June_

If Moira knew that I had done this, she would slap me. _Fucking stupid bitch! What are you trying to prove?_ she would say. Callously honest, to a fault. Hell, I wanted to slap myself. How I would so desperately like to leave this dreadful land with Emily and Holly.

Nichole.

Let's face it: She could never be Holly. There was no saccharine beach house with Nick in my future. Fantasies had no place here and even basic freedoms were pipe dreams, graspings of an ancient culture, chalkboard behind the white erase board. It was never her fault, so why was I trying to split the baby like Solomon? She couldn't be two people, two daughters. She couldn't be a daughter destined to grow up stunted, abused, and oppressed in Gilead. But she couldn't be mine either. I was tainted, marked, bruised like an over-ripened peach.

I was risking capture with every moment I stood under the hazy streetlamps. I started running.

This was something I missed. I had been cooped up ever since I was hospitalized, when they thought I had miscarried. I could only walk with Ofwarren to the stores and back, which was murder on my swelling feet and I hobbled due to my different center of gravity, making my back hurt. It occured to me that I was a rat in a maze, but even rats had hope for the wedge of cheese. I had been initiated in this network of Marthas, though they'd be pissed that I was coming back. All that planning, all this risk to get me out. But I was hardly free when Hannah was still here.

It was scary how little time it took in the Red Center for some women to be indoctrinated. Surely, it was easier for children, to be pulled underwater, into the poison. How much of me has been taken from her? She knew the true role of Handmaids. God knows what they were telling her. Are telling her.  What was she even learning? Her Martha had been nice, at least. She wasn't being taught to read. Maybe the Martha would tell her stories, from memory or make them up. I remembered the last book I read to her for a bedtime story, _The Lorax_. I felt like I was living in dark version of a Dr. Seuss classic; everything in orderly rhyme, conformity in its couplets, all leading towards a moral.

What would the moral of Gilead be? Maybe "desperation isn't cause for destruction." Or "the voiceless have their own means of screaming." More macabre than a children’s fable. Something succinct and powerful beyond candy-colored landscapes and anthropomorphic characters.  

Sirens still blared from within the neighborhood. What did they have instead of firefighters? Men with buckets, possibly. All this work to go back to traditional values and yet they missed the point of progressive technology. 

_Cell phones_. Aunt Lydia scoffed, as if she was uttering an unsightly swear word. _Youths and adults alike, wasting their lives away on their cell phones._ The projector crackled as stock pictures of smiling people flickered past, children playing on tablet devices, two boys furtively looking up naughty websites on a computer, a woman in a business suit with a cell phone to her ear. _You could call anyone you wanted for whatever sinful debauchery you had planned. You could go on dating sites and upload slutty pictures. An age where prostitution went as viral as a YouTube video._

That was before I knew the extent of Gilead’s hypocrisy. Ironically enough, Aunt Lydia used the word “Jezebels” to describe the women she thought of as whores, which were all women not within Gilead’s caste. _Tawdry little jezebels, abusing their God-given bodies with drink, drugs, promiscuous sex. And then they cry like children when men take what they so willingly offer. All the cries of women before then, the whining little whores, claiming they’ve been_ raped. Her voice rose with indignation and fervor, like it always did when she lectured on such matters. _Women abandoned their husbands, stole men away from their wives, beseeching their ordained marriage. Even the most Godly and dutiful wives, losing their husbands away to the little harlots._ It was no coincidence that her pacing had stopped before my desk then. She trained her eyes upon me, unblinking, cold and calculating.

_Isn’t that right, dear? It’s easy when the wife isn’t you_. She aimed down at me, her expression unwavering, and righteous tone her iron-sight. _Truly contemptible to involve a child within such an affair. It’s a blessing that they got her out of your house. She’ll be with_ respectable _parents._

How much I would have liked to stab her.

I wasn’t sure what my immediate plan was. It was stupid, foolish of me to still be on these streets. I was a baby-snatcher, a beacon of impurity, destined for a stoning.

The second I thought this, the blinding rays of headlights approached from behind me. My heart plummeted to my stomach. I was well and truly fucked now. A rogue Handmaid, a kidnapper, a conspirator. They wouldn’t bother with the stoning, they’d get the firing squad. They’d start feet first, letting me feel every piercing bullet, every hole being gauged, one final rape before they hung me on the Wall.

_Let her be an example to you_. Aunt Lydia would say to the terrified sea of wings, my sisters in red, mourning my loss. _Gilead shows no mercy for one who would harm a child._

I should be running. I should be running for my fucking life, but no, I just stood there like the proverbial fucking deer. I felt like I was back on the hanging post, rope around my neck. Only this time the floor would give away to spikes, to acid, to rabid, hungry dogs.

_Hannah. Hannah. I’m so sorry. I failed you. I love you._

_Luke. I’m so sorry. I love you. I’ll always love you._

_Nick...you tried so hard to get me out. I still love you, too._

_Holly. Nichole. May you be free at last._

_Please. Please, God. I don’t want it to hurt. Please._

I repeated each of these like a mantra in my head, starting to cry. I didn’t realize until the back door of the car opened that I was whispering it aloud.

“Somehow, I knew you wouldn’t go.”

I looked up, tears blurring my vision. It was Emily’s Commander, the weird one who had told us not to do drugs while ushering us into the black van.

“I don’t know if you have unfinished business here or are just a fucking idiot.” he said bluntly. “Charlie said you had stayed behind. So, which one is it?”

I wiped my eyes on my sleeve. “How do I know I can even trust you? How do I know you haven’t just sent Emily to her death?”

The Commander sighed. “You’re right. You have no reason to trust me. No reason to trust any of us. Especially not one that created all this.”

A chill went through me. What did he mean? Created what? Created the fires? The Martha’s escape plan? Or maybe he meant Gilead itself. If I could believe that, even a fraction of it, I wasn’t going to be safe anyway, no matter what I chose. I had been literally in the fucking plane to Canada and I was captured again. Hoping, the act of hoping itself was hopeless. But it still rises in you like bile, hope, burns the throat like liquor. It’s a mark of true cruelty, tyrannical forces that dangle freedom in front of you, making you do something so useless, like hope. Then comes the downfall, the blowing breath that extinguishes the flame and you’re left farther down the dark tunnel than you were before.

I was the one who literally closed the door on freedom.

So what if I was Anne Frank talking to Hitler?

“I need to find my daughter. My daughter from before. Hannah.” I told him slowly.

He considered me a moment. I knew from the way he studied me that he was more than strange. He didn’t carry the faux bravado of other Commanders, that air of decadent egotism and effervescent, all-encompassing masculinity. They usually flaunted their abilities, their control. It was evident in their mannerisms, the indulgences within their household. Waterford had painted the fucking walls of his office in his seniority, his self-righteous flaunting of the things women could no longer have. He basked in the control, lounged in his manipulation.

This Commander seemed like he had softened, like raw taffy does the more time it’s on the pulling machine. He had no integrity left. He looked tired, beaten down. Was there a hint of regret in his features after all?

“Better get off the streets. Eyes will be swarming the district any moment. Come on, then.” he said, avoiding looking at my face.

I stayed rooted to the spot. This was still too coincidental, pegs falling convieniently in place. He could just drive me back to the Waterford house to be executed. Sure, he let Emily and the baby go, but what if I was made a sacrifice? My punishment for not just leaving when I had the chance. Or he could just be stalling till the Eyes arrive at his house to take me quietly to the Colonies. He had a skewed sense of morals, maybe he’d think that he was at least saving me from Commander Waterford’s wrath.

But there was no safety here. You could have guards at every corner, shackle us to our beds, and build nine-foot walls, but it wasn’t for our safety. Lab rats, after all, are exterminated after experiments. The same rats are treated better, though. At least they had a wedge of cheese for their troubles.

I wasn’t escaping tonight. Nor was I finding Hannah tonight.

So, I walked over to where this Commander opened the backdoor to his car, folding myself into the backseat. He slammed the door shut, opened the passenger’s side, scrambled in.

“Flat on the floor, just in case.”

I followed suit. This wasn’t the first time a Commander’s told me to lie flat on a car floor, after all. Except this time, this one was smuggling me back into Gilead. What a fucked up web we weave.


	2. Praying

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aunt Lydia reminisces on her past and present regrets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [other stuff I've written](https://vocal.media/authors/cd-turner)
> 
> [Twitter](https://twitter.com/LadyChelseaofVA)
> 
> Edit: Few grammatical error fixes.

2\. Praying

_Cause you brought the flames and you put me through hell_

_I had to learn how to fight for myself_

_And we both know all the truth I could tell_

_I'll just say this is I wish you farewell_

_I hope you're somewhere praying, praying_

_I hope your soul is changing, changing_

_I hope you find your peace_

_Falling on your knees, praying_

“Praying” - Kesha

 

_Lydia_

I thought I had felt the worst pain imaginable. Three boys with melon-sized heads passed through my body, ripping me apart. Then they grow up and abandon their roots to sow groves of wild oats, ripping me apart again. There was no respect for mothers in those days. Babies were born to crack addicts, whores, and adulterers alike, but no one rolled out the carpet for mothers that broke their backs supporting their family. No wonder fertility rates fell. They begged for birth control so that they could join men in the workforce, lusting after money, forgetting about what’s really important.

I was faintly aware that I was no longer lying in a heap in the foray. I must have passed out from the pain, the shock.

I deserved this. I did. I was way too lenient with these girls. If they were squirreling knives away, I obviously wasn’t doing my job well enough. First, a terrorist bombing of the Rachel and Leah center, then the outright arrogance of Offred’s meddling with the Putnams’ daughter, now this. My charges, all of them. I had failed them. I had failed Gilead.

It was becoming a pattern in my life…

_Stacks of ripped-open envelops, letters, stationary, and torn bits of paper littered my desk. Hundreds upon hundreds of letters had arrived for me, stuffed hastily through the mail slot, slanted into the crevices of the cracks of the closed door, placed in the prickly holly bushes at the school’s entrance. I had recently sent the new editions to the dress code home with the students and parents were none too happy with the modifications._

_I was so desperately tired seeing young girls with their skirt hems hiked to their mid-thighs, their stockings mysteriously disappearing after they’re dropped off. During gym class, they were wearing preposterously short shorts, they might as well have been in their underwear. I had warned their parents and the girls themselves. They might hate the culottes I’ve ordered, but I considered this inundation of angry letters a welcome consequence if I could save these girls from the road they’re going down._

_I rubbed my temples with my fingers, hoping to soothe the migraine blurring my vision with its intensity. My sister, Lisa, is always telling me I should get Botox for my headaches, but she was a nurse. Take this pill, take that, get that mole lanced before it becomes a melanoma. She was 40 and on bed-rest till the birth of her son. Funny how she could tell me to take pills, but I couldn’t tell her the risks she’s taking with her own child. I told her that it was a blessing that she got pregnant in the first place, especially in this time and age._

_“If you start preaching at me, you can forget about being godmother, Lorraine,” she had barked at her last pre-natal checkup. Even at 40-years-old, she had an inkling of unbridled youth within her. She had the beginnings of crow’s feet at the edge of her cocoa-brown eyes. I was always jealous of her natural tight curls that framed her oval face so well._

_Lisa pulled back her shirt to observe the massive convex that was her stomach. The tiny imprint of a foot was bulging the skin from within her womb. I marveled at the glorious display of God’s grace._

_“Praised be His glory…” I cooed, feeling my nephew kick against my hand against Lisa’s abdomen._

_Lisa sighed, her eyes flickering. She was exasperated with my devotion. She and her husband were decidedly Catholic. I had disapproved of their marriage, but I served as maid as honor all the same. I had maintained that at least she was just Catholic. They, after all, believed in the sanctity of marriage, how imperative it was to have children in these days. But she would confess to me a couple of years before that she had been taking birth control._

_“Do you really not realize what is happening in this country?” I had said to her. She was facing the counter, chopping up vegetables for soup. She had accidentally dropped her purse and the telltale punch-hole plastic fell among the scattered vanity items._

_“How is it_ any _of your damn business, Lorrie?” she scoffed, scooping up the carrots and celery to put in the simmering broth._

_“I thought you were Catholic! Isn’t this is like a…cardinal sin?” I asked her._

_“For your information, I take them for endometriosis pain!” she yelled back._

_“Oh, please! That’s just a doctor’s excuse for women to be_ lazy _! For women to be_ whores _!”_

_“You know what? You can get out of my_ fucking _house if you’re going to be_ that bitch _!”_

_In hindsight, I wish I hadn’t been so crass. I’ve invited her and her husband to join me at the Sons of Jacob meeting countless times. She dismissed it time after time._

_“Lorraine, extremism doesn’t solve_ anything _.” she had hissed one night after I offered her a pamphlet from the latest SOJ group session._

_“Exactly what in this is extremist?” I prompted her._

_She let out an exasperated sigh. “Uh, like the fact you want to essentially_ force _women to have babies!”_

_“It wouldn’t be force. Women these days have been led astray by the media, magazines, Facebook, Instaglam, Snapschat and the like.”_

_“You mean Insta_ gram _and_ Snap _chat?” she corrected._

_I gave her an annoyed look. “Our race is dying, Lisa. We have to do_ something _.”_

_“Yeah, the Nazis thought they had to do_ something _as well.”_

_“_ Lydia _…”_

_“At least they had the gusto to stick by their beliefs and not just sit on their hands while the world burned around them.”_

_“_ Lydia _…_

_“Oh my God! Are you a Nazi_ sympathize _r?”_

_“_ Aunt Lydia _!”_

I awoke to a blinding light. Stark white ceilings gleamed with the intensity of the sun, the fluorescent lights making my eyes sting and water. I felt like I was emerging from under a current, a whirlwind even. I barely made out a face.

_God? Am I in Heaven? Did I die?_

“Easy, don’t sit up so quickly, you have a lot of stitches.”

That certainly was _not_ the voice I’d imagine God having.

“C-Commander Waterford.” I eked out. My throat was so dry, like I had swallowed rock salt.

My eyes adjusted to the light and I saw Waterford’s face more clearly. He looked ragged, like he had been running. His slick-backed hair stuck to his scalp with sweat, his eyes were heavy and tired. He hadn’t been grooming his beard; it was scraggly and unkempt.

   Truthfully, I never really liked Fred Waterford all that much. He was like so many of the Commanders: disingenuously pompous, bureaucratic, and arrogant. I liked their wives even less. I thought Naomi Putnam was grating to the nerves, but Serena Joy Waterford’s bitterness extended beyond her infertility. But it wasn’t up to me to decide if they deserved a Handmaid, that was the Council’s decision.

“What’s…” I began, my tongue too dry to form words. “Sorry, may I have some water?”

“Oh, yes.” he replied. He rose from the chair beside my bed. It wasn’t a usual hospital chair, white plastic and metal framework. Either the hospital nurses gave him or he demanded the well-cushioned chairs from the waiting room, the ones soft and pliable for (hopefully) pregnant Handmaids to rest while waiting for their appointments. I know, I had suggested such chairs to architects of Blessed Heart Health Center, even if they would pawn off the idea as their own.

His dress shirt was untucked, vest unbuttoned, tie abandoned. He poured a glass of water and stuck in a silicone straw. He walked back to my bedside and offered the water. I drank greedily, draining the glass.

“Thank you.” I said. He placed the empty glass on the table and sat back down. “What happened exactly?”

“From what I could gather from Commander Lawrence’s Martha, your Handmaid stabbed you in the back with a knife. I do not know what happened to the Handmaid in question. I’m guessing Commander Lawrence drove her to the judicial building himself, though he hasn’t shown up anyway himself. Strange man, but loyal to the faith, to a fault.” He cleared his throat. “In more greatly upsetting news…Offred has escaped with my child.”

I pursed my lips.

“That girl…that stupid, willful girl.” I hissed, my voice breaking. “Time and time again, I try to set her on the right path, but she rebels again and again. I think…if you do catch her…” I wiped my face. I gasped in pain – this arm had an IV needle placed it in.  “You might have…n-no other choice.”

He gave me an equally somber look. Whether it was genuine or not, I could not tell. He was good at acting the part.

“I know you care for your girls. But I fear that may be the only choice, too.” he agreed.

“Problem is…I’ve had my girls refuse to do their service in a Salvaging before. I’m afraid that…doing such with Offred would inspire rebellion.”

He considered this with sober yet menacing deliberation. “You need not worry, Aunt Lydia. I will assure that you have the means to reign in your charges, one way or another.”

His words were reassuring, but his voice, nevertheless, sent a sharp chill through me, like the first gust of wintery wind when opening the door.

“Praised be His judgment…and His mercy.” I said.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Believe me, I do not like Aunt Lydia any more than you do. But I do find her fascinating and absolutely hypocritical and deranged. I have experience with Christian fundamentalism firsthand, so I tried to balance her characterization between radical and devout, with small moments of kindness. Writing a convincing villain is far beyond having them cackle and rub their hands together, plotting evil deeds in a dark cave. It's much more frightening to consider that most of these villainous characters seem relatively innocuous on the surface, but they become warped in their desperation for power and children.
> 
> Also, in my headcanon, Aunt Lydia's real name is Lorraine. It was mentioned in the epilogue of the book that the names were invented by Commanders to be "familiar" names to the Handmaids in order to train them better. The names were from popular female icons of domestic brands like Sara (after the brand-specific bread, presumably), Elizabeth (Elizabeth Taylor maybe?), not sure what Lydia was, but the book was written in the early 80s, so I might not be familiar with some brand names.


	3. Reckoning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emily and the baby are delivered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [other stuff I've written](https://vocal.media/authors/cd-turner)
> 
> [Twitter](https://twitter.com/LadyChelseaofVA)
> 
> Edit: Fixed a few formatting errors.

3\. Reckoning

 

_Like a reckoning_

_You never saw coming_

_I’m the reaper outside your door_

_You took everything made me feel less than nothing_

_I’m getting what I came for_

_Like the sound of all the stars crashing in the dark_

_I said a prayer and buried your name_

_And up through the ashes I rose like wildfire_

“The Reckoning” – Halestorm

 

_Emily_

 

June’s daughter was restless in my arms. She bawled, her face bright red and wet with tears, her chubby arms flailing inconsolably. I rocked her helplessly as she cried. I could only hope that these steel walls suppressed her wailing in case the armored van was stopped. I didn’t know how long it had been since June had closed the doors and the van had driven off. As incredulous as it was that she had decided to stay within Gilead, I knew that she must have had her reasons. I didn’t take her as a woman who took revenge, though.  After all the bullshit she with through with Mrs. Waterford, she still had a remarkable ability to sympathize. She acted rationally in ways I wish I could.

 

Sylvia always said I had a temper, but she found it endearing. I think women in our position had to have tempers in those days, it was becoming the far-right norm to become submissive, passive, and obedient. I kept tabs on politics online, to my detriment, even after D.C. fell. I had argument after argument with Syl about moving to Canada. I was adamant about fighting. Even back in Montana, we were arguing about leaving. While I was pregnant with Oliver, we couldn’t even find an O.B. that would accept us, claiming that our insurance wasn’t within their network or they had too many cases already. But I knew what it was, this smokescreen of false propriety to cover up fear and bigotry.

 

_“How about Dr. Park in Hamilton?” Sylvia suggested, scrolling through her phone._

_We were both winding down before bed. I was putting on lotion and Vitamin E oil on my ever-growing baby-bump. Since I had such a slight frame, I was gaining so many stretch marks on my emerging belly, thighs, and boobs. My skin was so sensitive, I could only manage wearing loose cotton underwear and a tank-top with no bra. Before I was pregnant, I hated wearing skirts but now denim was like cheap wool on my thighs, scratchy and abrasive._

_“That office is at least an hour away. Plus, you know that law’s been passed in Montana…about doctors being able to turn patients away for—“_

_“—they’re allowed to refuse birth control, not prenatal care.” Sylvia interrupted. “I mean, we’re having a baby, you’d think they’d be pleased.”_

_I started working the lotion into my swollen feet. “Did you hear about Jenissa and Keisha? Both got inseminated? One miscarried at three months and the other at five. She told her boss at work that’s why she was out for a week and he fired her. She confronted him and he was all like, ‘If God won’t give two dykes babies, then he shouldn’t be doing them any favors either.’”_

_I could almost hear Sylvia’s eyes rolling. “So you’re going to base the care of our unborn child off some asshole’s opinion?”_

_“It’s not just ‘some asshole.’ Have you seen the opinion polls? 74% of the country wants to ban contraception because of this infertility thing! Keep in mind that one-third of German citizens supported the Nazi regime while the Holocaust was happening!” I argued. I rubbed the excess lotion onto my upper arms while Sylvia studied her phone in silence._

_“The Nazis tried to keep the general population from knowing how they were handling the ‘Jew problem’, Em. People thought that they were just deporting them.”_

_“Just goes to show that it’s useless to argue with a history professor.” I joked._

_“Political patterns like this have existed since the Constitution was signed. I mean, if the conservative movement during the Reagan administration could be counteracted, this one will.”_

_“The world wasn’t facing a sterility plague then,” I pointed out._

_“Oh, so the Cold War was just a drunken bar brawl that got out of control?”_

_“Well, those nuclear plant meltdowns in San Andreas weren’t divine intervention!”_

There were times when our arguments got so heated we forgot why we were arguing in the first place. We were both so peeved, so pissed off about what was happening that we took it out on each other. After we moved to New England, we didn’t think we would have to worry. I chose to stay as professor, bureaucrats be damned. I only know realize that was a selfish choice. We should have fled to the border on foot, not left a paper trail behind. I could have told the agents at the airport Sylvia was my sister, but I doubt that would have held much weight. They weren’t called the Eyes of God for nothing.

 

Strangely enough, I became more proactive as a Handmaid that I had pre-Gilead. In all my time during captivity as a Handmaid, I never quite found out what exactly the Commanders did to be called Commanders. Allegedly, the Commanders of the Faithful were the ones responsible for the President’s Day Massacre of the Congress and dismantling of the Constitution. I guess overtaking a government is one way to become elites. Even Mayday didn’t share what they learned about the Commanders direct influence over Gilead. After all, we could get caught and as much as you say you won’t confess, the torture instigated by the Eyes inevitably does end in a confession…or another body on The Wall.  

 

I learned a lot about some Commanders during my time in Mayday. A lot of them spent unorthodox time with their Handmaids. What was surprising is that most of them didn’t demand under-the-desk overtime, they just liked to flaunt their power to a person that has the least say in what they do with such power. My Commanders never did such things with me. They knew I was a lesbian from my file, which you’d think would excite a couple of them. My luck, getting saddled with the few old farts that actually believed in the doctrine. I also learned that some of them had strange hobbies. One was a flautist and liked showing his Handmaid his collection of flutes…which he had over 500 of. Some of their hobbies were just _wrong_. One had a vintage china doll collection which the informant Handmaid had found by accident leaning against a false wall panel that was actually a door.

 

None of these eccentric hobbies did anything to make Commanders seem endearing. I suppose they would to the classes of women that weren’t being raped every month. Though I guess if you didn’t know that fact about them, if you weren’t a Handmaid yourself, you would see them in a softer light. I mean, if you were as brainwashed as the rest of the pious devotees of the cause, you’d think of the Commanders as rightful leaders. They had their moments of humanity, however fleeting, even if it’s just for show. Power, it seemed, paid much more than humanity, in the grand scheme of things.

 

The baby in my arms had cried herself to sleep. She must be hungry. I hope we would arrive at our destination soon. I doubt Gilead even manufactured baby formula anymore, supply and demand and all. When I was with Mayday, they’d heard rumors of women being kept specifically as wet nurses to fill in if a Handmaid wasn’t producing enough milk or any at all. I had an image of my head of white-capped, red-wearing women on all fours, their breasts being sucked dry by milking machines like the workings of a dairy farm. It wasn’t far off from the truth.

 

The rumbling from underneath stopped. Had we arrived? Or was this is a checkpoint? Was I going to see the icy refuge of the Canadian border or the muzzle of an Eye’s gun? I shivered and not just because of the cold metal walls. It was too silent for comfort. I held tightly onto the baby like a talisman, something precious like a rosary. She would give me strength. She survived a near miscarriage, Serena Joy Waterford, and this joyless country. She was already a fighter, this pink bundle of opportunity.

 

The back doors opened, letting in the winter air. My heart stuck in my throat.

 

_Please don’t let this have been in vain…_

Someone was coming toward the van. In the darkness, I could only see a silhouette. They appeared to be wearing a uniform of some kind. Military? Angels? Guardians? My heartbeat stuttered, racing quicker. Then I saw the face. A female face, wearing camouflage from neck to feet. She wore a navy blue beret with an insignia of something I couldn’t make out in the dark. A crown, perhaps?

 

“Hello, there. Welcome to Canada.” she asked, her accent clipped.

 

British. She was a British soldier!

 

“H-Hi…” I stammered, my eyes watering. On shaking legs, I got up and the soldier helped me out of the back of the van. My tears instantly dried in the cold.

 

“Is this little tyke yours?” she asked, cooing at the baby. “Hello there cutie!”

 

“N-No…a Handmaid gave her to me. T-To get her out of Gilead.” I said.

 

“Well, it’s freezing out here. Let’s get you inside. You want some tea, coffee? I think we also have some hot cocoa if you prefer…” she asked, leading me toward a large brick building. This must be a warehouse parking lot, the warehouse turned refugee center.

 

“I…coffee would be w-wonderful.” I answered.

 

In my arms, the baby started fussing.

 

“Aw, she must be cold and hungry! We have formula inside as well and plenty of blankets. What’s her name?”

 

I considered the tearful child in my arms. I remembered on one of our walks after she was born, June was telling me she would have named her Holly, if she had the choice, after her mother. But she also told me to name her Nichole, what Serena Joy had named her. I wasn’t at all keen on Serena Joy, but it was June’s wishes and June’s daughter. Her legacy.

 

“Holly,” I said with finality, “Holly Nichole Osborne.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You’d think I’d have flashbacks, from all the shit I’ve been through. But it was post-traumatic stress disorder, wasn’t it? I wasn’t out of the trauma and I was still fighting a war, of a type."

4\. Heathens

_Welcome to the room of people_

_Who have rooms of people that they loved one day_

_Docked away_

_Just because we check the guns at the door_

_Doesn't mean our brains will change from hand grenades_

_You're loving on the psychopath sitting next to you_

_You're loving on the murderer sitting next to you_

_You'll think, "How'd I get here, sitting next to you?"_

_But after all I've said, please don't forget_

_All my friends are heathens, take it slow_

_Wait for them to ask you who you know_

_Please don't make any sudden moves_

_You don't know the half of the abuse_

 

_June_

 

The floor of the car smelled of shoe polish. He must take other Commanders in this car to…places where they can guy around. What do Commanders talk about without people to condemn their hypocrisy? Maybe they’d go to Jezebel’s, drink and have cigars while they had evening rental women “worshipping” on their knees. Luckily, the Commander has never asked me to do that to him.

 

Because I’d probably chew his “little Commander” clean off. Emphasis on _little_.

 

I always found it weird how the most homophobic, self-acclaimed beacon of manhood constantly compared their dick size to others. Luke was never like that…or at least, to my knowledge, he wasn’t. I’d like to think Nick wasn’t as well, but he worked under such men, knew their dirty little secrets. It’s strange how men had to prove they were men, but women had to prove they were more than the sum of their parts. I remember Mom’s “Rosie the Riveter” posters, that cartoon woman with stern face and bulging bicep. I remember back when D.C. fell, a whole art school campus attempted to paint a large mural of “Rosie” on the back of an old brick primary school building in protest. A few days later, it was painted over and replaced with the dove and gold leaf pattern of Gilead’s national flag. In hindsight, that should have been a warning.

 

I folded my arms up under me, laying my head upon them. Car engines weren’t so noisy since they switched to electric-powered automobiles. Funnily enough, I missed the scent of gasoline.

 

Suddenly, the car was slowing. Checkpoint? Were we arriving? I heard the sound of the driver seat window rolling down.

 

“Blessed be the fruit, Commander Lawrence. Returning from business?” said an unknown Guardian. I stayed completely still, daring not to even breathe. One flash of red, one untimely cough and I would be found.

 

“May the Lord open. Aren’t I always?” Commander Lawrence said. “Awful lot of Guardian detail out tonight? Did something happen?”

 

“A baby has gone missing, but a rogue Handmaid won’t get far, God willing.” the Guardian responded. “Orders are to apprehend, not kill. Keep an eye out, will you?”

 

“Of course. Have a good night, son. Under His Eye.” Commander Lawrence said. The window rolled up and I let out my breath I’d be holding.. “Preening little jackasses, all of them. Give them a gun and a badge and all are them are suddenly _Magnum P.I._ Remember Tom Selleck? Heard he moved to Hawaii with the rest of the celebrities with private jets…”

 

He continued to ramble on, more to himself than me or the driver. Oddly, he reminded me of my bipolar Uncle Paul who Mom didn’t talk to if she didn’t have to. When I was nine, he showed up at Grandma Heather’s funeral completely blotto and talking nonsense. He tried to give a eulogy but ended up puking in a gifted flower pot from Great Aunt Elaine.

 

My shoulders were hurting from lying on my arms. Where the hell were we even going? Maybe he was personally escorting to the border, but somehow I doubted it. Maybe he was taking me to the Colonies. _Oh, she didn’t leave when she had the chance. Must be suicidal, then._ Stranger things have happened. Clitoridectomies for lesbian sex, for example.

 

I remember when I was an editor; we were compiling a book on methods of torture throughout human history. There was an entire chapter about isolation, the physical and psychological effects of long-term solitary confinement. Some studies said that the health risks of prolonged isolation were similar to those of smokers. It can also make one more susceptible to heart problems and depression. Even hopelessness, in my case. After Nick was forcibly married to Eden, I sunk so low into myself, like falling down a fathomless well. I felt so alone, especially when playing the part of the obedient Handmaid to Mrs. Waterford.

 

That was the closest I’ve ever come to dying.

 

Not when I jumped out of the window, before when the blood started to show. Bright red against the white, my failure in every drop. June nearly dissolved into Offred as sugar into tea. Numbness doesn’t even explain it. I wasn’t even trying to meld into my memories of times before. Despair wasn’t a time machine, after all. You think I’d be used to despair, constantly having my body invaded. You’d think I’d have flashbacks, from all the shit I’ve been through. But it was _post_ -traumatic stress disorder, wasn’t it? I wasn’t out of the trauma and I was still fighting a war, of a type.

 

The engine died below. I heard the door locks disengage. Where had he taken me? It was dark, like we were in a tunnel or garage. The back door opened.

 

“Get up, quietly. Get up and get out.” Commander Lawrence instructed in a whisper.

 

It took me two tries to get up—my arms had fallen asleep. I rose up on my knees and inching my way out of the car. The cold hit me like a slap to the face, but it wasn’t the open air. We were in a garage, of sorts, one like the McKenzie’s that fit multiple cars. No hot rods in here, though. There was a woodshop in the corner. It looked like my Grandpa Bill’s old hobby shop he had in the basement of his town house. It evened smelled of wood finish and grass clippings.

 

A door opened, the door leading into a dark hallway by the looks of it. A Martha appeared, an older one with graying hair and wizened face. Her thin lips were scowling. No laugh lines there.

 

“It is 5am, for Chrissake’s,” she said lightly in a sharp Southern drawl, “couldn’t even call first?”

 

“Bit of a commotion in District 88, Maude. Need to know, only.” Commander Lawrence explained. “I have a kidnapper here with me. Hope you can keep her safe until I can smooth things over on the home front.”

 

“Is Eleanor doing any better? She takin’ her meds?” the Martha called Maude asked.

 

“She’s…dealing.” Commander Lawrence said shortly.

 

“Well, hey there. I’m sorry ‘bout the circumstances, but I am glad that you’re here.” Maude said with a sudden smile. There was warmth in her eyes now, warmth I hadn’t seen in anyone for a long time. “Let’s go inside so we can talk more. I trust I’ll be seeing you in a couple days, Joseph?”

 

The Commander was already getting back in the car. “What? Oh, yes. Yes. Shouldn’t take but a few. Gotta make appearances, kiss some asses, all that bullshit. See ya.”

 

The car started. The garage door lifted as the car backed out and then instantly closed again as the car sped away.

 

“Come on, inside, ma’am. I’ll introduce you to the others.” Maude said, leading me in.

 

Others?

 

If this was a horror movie, walking into a dark, seemingly deserted house would seem like the very thing to get stupid people killed. But that’s what we did. Maude pulled something out of her pocket. Well, that’s something I haven’t seen in a while. A flashlight. No oil lanterns for this Martha. She aimed the beam of light forward and I saw the brief glimpses of green-leaved floor runners on hardwood, the edge of a painting, a flash of curios upon a fireplace mantle. Did anyone live here?

 

I got my answer in the next second, along with a heart attack. There was an elderly man in the foyer in silk black pajamas. I covered my mouth with my hands, suppressing a scream. Maude, however, wasn’t startled.

 

“Harold!” she hissed. “You need to be in bed!”

 

A closer look at him revealed that he wasn’t all there, mentally wise. He seemed confused and frightened by the flashlight.

 

“Where’s Elizabeth?” he asked, his voice shaking. “Where is she? She was supposed to take me to my doctor’s appointment.”

 

“Elizabeth is resting, Harold. As you should be.” Maude told him gently.

 

“Something the matter, Maude?” asked a voice further along the hall. Another Martha approached, this one also toting a flashlight. She was younger, middle-aged with some beginning flecks of gray in her pulled-back hair. She had indents on her cheeks and nose to where she must usually wearing glasses. “Oh, you have a straggler!”

 

“I’m going to take her down to the bunker. Can you take Mr. Putnam back to his room, Shirley? Maybe make him some soothing tea.” Maude said to her.

 

“Right away, ma’am.”

 

Shirley easily led Harold down the hallway as Maude ushered me towards a door. She opened it, led me into a library. Wall to wall shelves filled with books, weapons of mass destruction, surrounded a reading nook consisting of sophisticated green chairs. A cherub chandelier hung from the ceiling, spilling its golden glow of light over the room.

 

Maude went over to a painting and gently eased it off its wall stud. Behind it, there was a keypad.

 

What kind of James Bond shit was this?

 

“This house was built way before the Cold War. It belonged to a paranoid old veteran who built himself a massive bomb shelter below his house in case the war went nuclear. The military family who owned it after the Gilead coup were murdered by the Eyes for conspiracy and apostasy. So, to the whole of Gilead, this is one of many places repurposed as a nursing home. But to my knowledge…this is the only one that’s also a secret resistance headquarters.”

 

She gave me a conspiratorial smile that I couldn’t help but return as she punched numbers onto the keypad. The sound of a metallic latch clicked below the circular rug under our feet.

 

“Step back, honey.” the Martha said, ushering me off the rug.

 

At once, a rectangular hatch opened, the entire rug glued to the back of it. A metal ladder led down a chute into darkness. Into uncertainty.

 

“Well, no time like the present.” Maude prompted.

 

I grabbed hold of the sides and carefully put my feet onto a rung below. Slowly, I descended. It was very dark. I continued to climb down and heard Maude getting onto the latter above me. _Jesus_ , how far down was this bunker??

 

Finally, I stepped onto concrete floor.

 

“Hey, hey, hey! New blood!” yelled a voice. It was very deep down, my ears were popping, giving me vertigo. Maude soon made it down, too. “Blessed be the fight, Double M. Welcome to the Hive.”

 

The girl who greeted us was wearing sweatpants. Sweatpants! Those still exist! Her black hair was short and spunky, framing her heart-shaped face.

 

“The headquarters does not have a nickname, that’s the point.” said another person, this was a young looking man in his early 20s. He also wore sweats and an overlong T-shirt. They must have just woken up. “Name’s Jason. This is Winnie.”

 

“ _Win_ , I _hate_ the name Winnie.” she corrected with a snarl.

 

“Our alarms always sound when the keypad is touched, so the whole bunker’s awake.” Jason said with a resigned look. He had brunette hair and five ‘o clock shadow, the kind of unkemptness that Gilead scorned.

 

More people were gathering in the main bunker. It was like looking into a portal of the past, when people were individuals, not one conglomerate doing one function.

 

“How many members are there down here?” I asked.

 

“Uh, about fifteen at the moment. But not all of us are resistance members, some are just here until they can be smuggled out of Gilead.” Jason said.

 

“Alright, alright, let her through so we can get her acclimated.” Maude said, ushering me into the hall. The walls were made of some kind of steel plating. This main entrance area was a cafeteria and resting area. It reminded me of communal dorms back in college, except this one was slightly more apocalyptic. There were bookcases down here, too, and computers on desks in the corner. The furniture looked like it was installed here decades ago, though the long plastic dining tables looked new…well, “Gilead new” as in “salvaged from the trash fires.”

 

“Let’s get you settled in, dear.” Maude said. “I’ll go fetch you some real clothes.”

 

Before she did, I threw my arms around her in a big hug. I swore I wouldn’t cry, but this was the most hopeful I had felt in anything in a long while. She returned the hug and I thought I could hear the slightest sound of a sniffle from her as well.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoop whoop! I've got to say, this has motivated me to keep going with my writing even when times are hard. I'm fresh squeezed out of muse juice for now, so I hope you enjoy this chapter. 
> 
> Also, I've updated my analysis of The Handmaid's Tale analysis on Vocal for Chapters 6-8 if you want to read it:
> 
> https://viva.media/the-handmaid-s-tale-analysis-chapters-6-8
> 
> (I get paid for every view on the page. Do with that information what you will. *whistles innocently*)


	5. Why’d You Bring a Shotgun to The Party?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fred has a flashback dream of his troubled childhood; The Commander addresses new policies at a Salvaging.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N – WARNING. I know, why do you need a warning for a series about institutionalized rape, but still. WARNING, this next chapter will be from Fred Waterford’s POV, namely how I think his childhood must have been. After all, what kind of man seeks to destroy the government and enslave women to be sex slaves? I might watch too much Criminal Minds and Law & Order: SVU. There might be some mentions of childhood sex abuse/molestation. Touchy subject, so here’s your trigger warning. 
> 
> Also, did you see the Season 3 teaser? I’m kind of worried because Margaret Atwood has tweeted saying even she doesn’t know what it’s about. That never bodes well. All the same, this will remain within my canon for now. She has a sequel to The Handmaid’s Tale coming as well, The Testaments! I’m excited! More news, I might be going back to school to get my Bachelor’s in Psychology! Might be, still waiting for confirmation. 
> 
> If you want some interaction with the story, see if you can find all the bastardized errors I may or may not have done with the scripture! Because it was established by Bruce Miller canon that Gilead cherry-picks their verses and purposefully promotes them out of context.
> 
> [other stuff I've written](https://vocal.media/authors/cd-turner)
> 
> [Twitter](https://twitter.com/LadyChelseaofVA)
> 
> Alright, enough rambling. On with the show!
> 
> Edit: Fixed continuity error.

5\. Why’d You Bring a Shotgun to The Party?

 

_Alone, afraid, the kid your mother made_

_Sitting in your room drooling like a loser with all this doom_

_You think, then you start to drink_

_Then you get so paranoid with all the drugs they fill you with_

_Then boom_

_Does it make you feel like a man?_

_Boom_

_It's not the size we understand,_

_Boom_

_You think you're gonna get with me_

_You're never gonna get with me_

_You're never gonna dance with me_

_I admit, I feel like you, like shit_

_But I don't go 'round and take it out on everyone about it_

_We're all part of the system_

_You wanna start a war?_

_You think that anyone would listen?_

_Why'd you bring a shotgun to the party?_

_Why'd you bring a shotgun to the party?_

_Everybody's got one, there's nothing new about it_

_Wanna make a statement? You should've come without it_

“Why’d You Bring a Shotgun to the Party” – The Pretty Reckless

  

_Fred_

 

 

           _“FREDDIE! Where are you, Freddie? It’s time for your bath!” the shrill tones of my mother would yell down the hall. I was 11-years-old and still getting bathed. Time after time, I told her I was old enough to take my own baths. But no, she had read this and watched that on television about children dying in bathtubs. My brother, Bobby, locked her out of the bathroom and she would go into a rage about it, trying to break something to get attention._

_She got attention. Dear old dad clocking her against the face until she simpered down into a weeping mass in front of the television. Our maid, Ida, would then calm her down with a cup of tea (with generous amounts of bourbon, but still tea.) Things didn’t go my mother’s way. She wanted a full career as a cosmetics entrepreneur but fell in love with my father instead. Dad was one of the earliest Sons of Jacob members, though it wasn’t called the Sons of Jacob back then. His beliefs were more hard-lined with Pentecostal evangelism, though he detested the practice of speaking in tongues._

_He was wealthy as a pastor in Philadelphia where we grew up, erected the Growing Souls Pentecostal Church in the heart of town. Every Sunday and Wednesday, Mom and my brothers were piled into his silver Crown Victoria to head to service. He was an electric preacher, my father. He knew how to captivate and intimidate the crowd like they were one being. He was a man who demanded so much respect and you were a fool to refuse to do so._

_Mom persisted still on the bath. Get in, get it over with, Fred. Then she’ll get take her Vicodin-Scotch cocktail and sack out in front of_ The 700 Club _._

_I went down the hall and into the bathroom, the one with the smaller tub for us. Only the adults got to use the massive Jacuzzi tub in Dad’s room. Mom was waiting by the steaming tub with a displeased look on her face. She used to be beautiful, but she’s forgone doing her makeup these days and her hair was frizzy and unmanaged. Dad even threw money at her to go have a spa day at the salon for a new perm, but she said she was too tired. (“Too tired of doing what? Drinking?” he had spat over dinner one evening.)_

_“Strip.”she commanded._

_My face flamed with embarrassment. “Mom, I can wash myself.”_

_“Don’t pull one over me.” she snapped. “I know exactly what boys get up to in baths. I’m keeping you pure. Now,_ strip _.”_

_Slowly, I dragged my gym shorts and underwear off, balancing on one leg to take off my left sock, then on my right leg to take off the other. I pulled off my sweat-soaked shirt, gathered the dirty clothes, and took them over to the hamper._

_“Get in.” Mom seethed. Impatient as ever._

_I eased myself into the hot bath, shaking from head to toe, but not because I was cold._

_Mom poured bath oil into the water, swirling it around. She mumbled, her words stumbling forth like she was in a confessional._

_“_ ’If we say that we have fellowship with him, and walk in darkness, we, and do not the truth _,” –her voice lifted, as did her hand to stroke my cheek, like a mother does to soothe a toddler – “_ But if we walk in the light, as he is in the light, we have fellowship one with another…If we say that we have no sin, we deceive ourselves, and the truth is not in us _.”_

_Her hand rested, palm down on my chest. Slowly, it inched downward as my breathing stuttered._

_“_ If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just to forgive us our sins, and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness _.”_

_Further down, under the water. She grabbed hold of me, squeezing hard. I stayed still and quiet though. Even the slightest whimper would make her mad enough to vice grip my balls, too._

_“_ If we say that we have not sinned, we make him a liar, and his word is not in us. _”_

“Commander? Commander Waterford? Fred?”

 

A book slammed, startling me out of my sleep. I looked up, disoriented. Warren Putnam stood before me in full military regalia.

 

“I’ve been interim Chief Commander while you were dealing with your…situation.” he said, picking a piece of lint off his collar. Pretentious twit. “Hence the full uniform. We have envoys from Russia wanting to potentially talk about a trade deal. Think about it, a few hundred Handmaids for some serious military firepower. Could take over the Baptist bastards at last.”

 

“I think our ultimate issue is raising a new generation of young soldiers. Who knows, maybe we’ll both be able to take on Handmaids again, try for some sons.” I told him plaintively.

 

“One must be thankful for the blessings God grants us. Your little blessing will turn up in due time, I’m sure of it. We must remain steadfast in prayer, keep the faith. How’s Serena? She doing any better?”

 

I organized the papers in front of me. “She’s angry. Understandable. Ashamed of  herself, I’m sure. They wanted to remove her index finger, but I insisted that she’d still be allowed to knit. She loves knitting.”

 

“I’m just sorry that she persuaded all our brothers’ Wives to join her. I hated to discipline Naomi, but it’s the only way she’ll learn to be obedient.” Warren said with fake sympathy. “Well, just came to check on you.”

 

“Any word on Commander Lawrence’s AWOL Handmaid?” I asked, perusing through my latest documents, just to have something to do. “Or mine?”

 

“Apparently, Commander Lawrence was in D.C. to consult with the Justiciar. He was as shocked as we all were to hear his new Handmaid assaulted an Aunt. As for Offred or the child, no leads have come up.”

 

I grimaced, a pain in my chest still burning. Not heartburn. Possibly heartbreak. This is what I get for falling in love with an adulteress slut. I gave her every latitude I could, let her see her daughter, offered her a life here with Nichole. God, what I wouldn’t do for an obedient woman.

 

“Very well. I want more units to patrol the border to Ontario,” I ordered.

 

“Um, that’s going to be a problem.” 

 

I lifted my eyes, but not my head, glaring at him.

 

“You are only interim Chief when I leave the district and I am here. Send more units.” I hissed. The stunning arrogance of this man, why he was elected interim, I’ll never know.

 

“British, Canadian, and French soldiers are reportedly running drills near the border. We suspect they might be planning to invade. The Council fears sending more Angels to the frontlines would incite them further.” he explained.

 

“THAT _BITCH_ STOLE MY CHILD, PUTNAM! I WANT HER _HEAD_ IN A NOOSE!” I screamed, accidentally toppling my chair over.

 

“ _’A soft answer turneth away wrath: but grievous words stir up anger_.’” he quoted smartly.

 

“OUT! _OUUUUUT_!”  I yelled after his pompous ass.

 

“Praised be your patience, Waterford.”

 

He stormed out of my office, slamming the double doors wide open. Serena stood in the hallway, still in her robe and slippers. Her hair was raggedly unkempt, not in the regulation bun but I knew not to tempt her anger by suggesting she’d groom herself. She was distraught from Nichole being snatched away from us. Yet, there was a remainder of guilt and knowledge unknown to me, a secret hidden behind her stony-faced expression of piety. But it was not the time for questioning. That would come later, when the shock was not so fresh.

 

I walked to the entrance where she stood staring after Putnam’s wake.

 

“Darling?” I asked gently. “Is there something you need?”

 

“I just…is there any news about Nichole?” she asked.

 

She asked this every other day. I had to wonder about her odd calmness about the situation. She’s normally afire about the slightest sign of impropriety. Or maybe this was about the finger thing. Women held grudges so long, they forget what their angry about.

 

“Serena? Is there anything you need to tell me, love?” I prompted her.

 

She glanced up to look into my eyes, for a brief moment, then she directed her gaze out the window.

 

“No, Fred. I’m your wife,” she answered softly, yet there was an inkling of bitterness to her voice, “it is my duty to be your loyal, honest helpmeet. No more lies. I love you.”

 

She pressed a short, insincere kiss to my lips and gave me one last solemn look before climbing the stairs, to our room, our marriage-bed.

 

*~*

 

Upon the stage, I watched the sea of white wings and red dresses file into the salvaging field. Aunt Lydia was beside me in her wheelchair, still a little peaked, but overall feeling well enough to return to her duties. Her lips were pursed, eyebrows furrowed as she looked over her charges. The early spring was still cold, but the grass was cleared of most of the snow and ice. The morning fog hung low, like the ground was smoking beneath the Handmaids. _Hell rising_ , I joked quietly to myself.

 

I took my cue to stand up as Aunt Lydia wheeled herself forward. I pushed her further up to the podium, strolling her to the side so the Handmaids had ample view of her condition. I stood back, hands behind my back.

 

The Handmaids all gasped to see Aunt Lydia in the chair. The Commanders and Guardians have been working to torch the grapevine gossip. Official business was restricted to soundproof, dead-bolted chambers these days. The more disorder the Handmaids overheard, the more recalcitrance happens among them.

 

Not anymore.

 

“Good morning, girls.” Aunt Lydia greeted the Handmaids.

 

“Good morning, Aunt Lydia.” they chanted back.

 

“As you can see, I have been in a bit of an accident. Cars and black ice are no laughing matter. By God’s Grace, I still  have use of my legs, but I’ll need to stay in this chair throughout my rehabilitation. Luckily, a couple of borrowed Aunts from a neighboring district have graciously stepped in to help. Please welcome Aunt Vera and Aunt Claire.”

 

She started clapping and it started off slowly, awkwardly, but the Handmaids gave a round of tepid applause. The two new Aunts -- one slender with a pointed, angular face and heavy eyelids, the other heavyset with a wide face and cheeks flaring with rosacea -- nodded during their lukewarm welcome.

 

“There’s no particicution today, girls.” Aunt Lydia confirmed. “Rather, we have a change of policy to announce. Here, to explain the new policy is a decorated Commander of the Faithful, Chief Logistics and Field Commander Frederick Waterford.”

 

Only Aunt Lydia clapped. I could practically feel the mutinous glares among me.

 

But even if they hated me, it also meant they feared me.

 

“Guardian Blane, if you will…” I requested.

 

Nick approached from his station beside three other Guardians, walking uniformly over to where I was at the podium. He held the lock box where the Ceremony Bible is kept. I fished the key out of my jacket pocket and unlocked the box. Carefully, I handled the leather-bound Word, pulling at the blue tab and opening to 1st Samuel.

 

I cleared my throat.

 

“ _’And she said, Let thine handmaid find grace in thy sight. So the woman went her way, and her countenance was no more sad_.’”

 

I flipped to another bookmarked tab, Exodus.

 

“ _’And if a man sell his servant to be a handmaid, she shall not go out as the men do. If she please not her master, who taken her to himself, then shall he let her be redeemed_.’”

 

I closed the Bible, placing it neatly back in its box. Nick closed the lid and locked it, returning to his place beside his brother Guardians.

 

“Due to the recent disappearances, we fear that we have no other choice but to install new stringent rules to ensure the prosperity and safety of our blessed republic. As such, we are imposing a demerit system, each demerit carrying different tiers of punishment. These demerits carry over a period of six months. The demerits are recorded by your Aunts, Commanders, and Guardians. Each demerit will be represented upon your person by a fabric-stamped badge on your wings.”

 

The Handmaids’ sullen rage was palpable like heat off sun-baked asphalt.

 

_It’s for their own good._

 

“First offense, you lose your in-town privileges. For your exercise, two Guardians will accompany you as you walk in the district, no further than the Esther Street Checkpoint. Otherwise, you are to remain in your room unless it’s Ceremony Day or an emergency. This will last three weeks then you will be allowed to go into town once more, but your demerit still remains until the end of the six month period.

 

“Second offense, you lose your in-town privileges until the six month period resets and you will return to the Rachel and Leah Center a week out of each month for doctrine reinforcement.

 

“Third offense, you lose your in-town privileges permanently, you take doctrine reinforcement, and a body part of our choosing surgically removed.

 

“Fourth offense, you receive fifty lashes of a belt to your hands, feet, and backside in front of your household. You are condemned before your peers in a tribunal, then you are led into the main square and executed by stoning.”

 

Who knew the absolute frightful silence could be so comforting?


	6. 6. Never Go Back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Luke receives some heart-lifting news; Emily ponders her life from this moment; Moira thinks over her time as a Jezebel;

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Yes, I know. This is so effing late. But I haven’t given up on this. I’m bipolar, depressed, and have incredibly often bouts of writer’s block. The Handmaid’s Tale is also depressing to both watch and write for, I have to be in the mood. But I currently have many pages of a legal pad filled with one and a half chapters. 
> 
> If I may be so lame as to put my Twitter and Vocal links here, so you can be updated on my posts and other things I’ve written:
> 
> [Vocal](https://vocal.media/authors/cd-turner)   
> 
> 
> [Twitter](https://twitter.com/LadyChelseaofVA)   
> 
> 
> WARNINGS FOR THIS CHAPTER: Emily monologues about her clitoridectomy, that’s never fun to think about. Also, prepare your tissues.

6\. Never Go Back

 

 

_Everything is so dark_

_And I know there's something wrong but I can't turn the light on_

_In that split second change when you knew we couldn't hold on_

_I realized I lived to love you_

_Save yourself, don't look back_

_Tearing us apart until it's all gone_

_The only world I've ever known sleeps beneath the waves_

_But I remember…_

_-“_ Never Go Back _”_ by Evanescence

 

_Luke_

 

“Hey…buddy. You need to get up. It’s closing time.”

 

I lifted my head out of my folded arms. I wiped my face clean of beer nut pieces and drearily regarded Al, the barkeep. I remembered only having three glasses of Moosehead, but maybe that wasn’t a good idea with how exhausted I was.

 

Nothing was a good idea anymore.

 

“Rough night, eh?” Al asked. He was a balding man, no older than mid-40s at least. I had been drunk here so many times, we might as well be best friends.

 

“Yeah. Lot of rough nights.” I said, standing up. My back protested – bar stools were not the best place to have a nap, after all. “How much?”

 

Al stopped cleaning the glasses and checked his notepad. “Eight, even.”

 

I opened my wallet and slapped down a Canadian ten.

 

“Keep the change.”

 

I left out the front door into the frigid spring. Winter doesn’t really end in Canada. In some parts, it snows all year long. Due to the disastrous climate change in recent years, the temperature hasn’t peaked above 4℃ / 40℉ even in summer months. No wonder fertility was such an issue – men were literally freezing their balls off. Well, non-native men. Canadian men and women, born and bred, considered 35℉ shorts weather.

 

My phone buzzed in my jean pocket. I took it out, and then realized I must have lost a contact out of one eye because the screen was half-blurry. I closed the affected eye and read the message.

 

“Dear Mr. Bankole,

                                I hope we find you well today. An alert has been raised at THE ONTARIO REFUGEE PROCESSING CENTER regarding a contact name on your list with the last name: OSBORNE.  Please report to THE ONTARIO REFUGEE PROCESSING CENTER to meet with your contact.

                                                                                                     Thank you,

                                                                                                     Penny A. Tapping

                                                                                                     Director of Operations”

 

My heart jumped to my throat, or at least that’s what it felt like. In my anticipation, I started running. It was probably not a good idea to run while buzzed, but the adrenaline took precedence over logic at that point. The refugee center was just a block away from the bar.

 

I then stopped in my tracks. Moira! Of course, how the hell did I forget about her? She was a pain in my ass, but still family as much as June is.

 

I speed-dialed Moira. It was nearly 2am, she’d be pissed off, but this was way more important than sleep.

 

“What the fuck, Luke?” she answered moodily. “I am not coming to lead your drunk ass home, hop in a cab.”

“Listen to me! I got an alert on my phone! It’s June! I know it is, she’s here!” I told her.

 

“I swear to God, if you’re pulling something on me, I’m gonna beat your motherfucking ass.”

 

“Why would I lie about this?! Get your ass out of bed and meet me at the refugee center!”

 

“Alright, alright. Let me put some clothes on, shit.”

 

“See you soon.”

 

I hung up and continued running.

 

 

_Emily_

 

It’s been forever since I’ve worn jeans. They were uncomfortable, not tight or chafing, just foreign to my skin after wearing cotton and nylon for so long. When I finally took off the red dress in the changing stall, seeing my naked flesh in the mirror startled me. The radiation from the Colonies had not helped my skin at all. I palpated each breast, expecting lumps. I stretched out my neck and jaw, looking for swelling. Most of the women in the workhouses died from thyroid cancer, if the radiation sickness didn’t claim them first.

 

Funnily enough, I thought of Oliver and the endless hours I would spend lathering him with sunscreen as a baby, only for him to get sunburn anyway. Pools were being closed throughout the country – the bureaucrats thought swimsuits and chlorine were poisoning children, both physically and mentally – so we would fill up a kiddie pool in the backyard of our meager townhouse. Sylvia and I would enjoy the sun with homemade apple cider ice cream watching Oliver splash around with his toys for hours.

 

Sylvia.

 

It was desperation, to think back in Gilead that this would end and we would all continue with our lives as before. But it wasn’t like placing a bookmark in a page, to pick up again when you had the time to read again. When you could read without losing fingers. Or when you could have sex without being mutilated.

 

I looked down there. I couldn’t not. They didn’t remove the labia, just the upper cleft where the clitoris and hood should be. Doing a full Type III clitoridectomy1 would sound like something Gilead would do, but that would make delivering babies harder. I only knew about them pre-war because I had a colleague who consulted with me about increased changes of infection in African teenagers she was helping get pro-bono reconstruction surgery. Dr. Hasani Kepurr. I called her a bleeding heart but I meant it as a compliment. Most male doctors at that time were a part of the movement…whatever the hell it was that corrupted America with the Christian version of Sharia Law. I doubt they even knew what a clitoris was for. Or cared. Definitely not cared.

 

I was looking between my legs, looking at my very sex, but I felt like my womanhood had been stripped from me. My breasts were pale white, the skin like curdled milk. I always hated how pimpled my areolas were. My nipples were never the same after Oliver was weaned.

 

I couldn’t go back. I am not the woman Sylvia married. I am no longer the mother that birthed Oliver. All of that’s been stolen from me. Who was this wasted, butchered woman staring at me in the mirror? She was a stranger, a refugee in a borrowed body.

 

I dressed in the donated clothes. There was a beige bra, just a generic two cup with padding, but I couldn’t bear it. I instead pulled a cotton tank top on, followed it with a knitted gray sweater. Hand-knitted, it was. Or was it crocheted? It smelled like a grandmother’s house – musky, stale floral perfume and the smells of cooking.

 

“Emily?” said the timid voice of Mrs. Tapping, my processing agent. “You have some vistors. Or, that is to say, Holly has visitors. Are you familiar with a Lucas Bankole or Moira Phillips?”

 

I fastened my jeans and steadied myself. Luke…that was surely June’s husband? And Moira…she was the one Janie had said had been sent to the Colonies. Had she gotten out, then? June could have told me this and I forgotten. I was in survivor mode, that kind of selective processing of information. If I refused to accept bad things, they didn’t happen. Only problem is, the good things got caught in the filter as well.

 

“Uh, yeah. They’re June’s family. I mean, the Handmaid that handed Holly to me.”

 

Don’t know why she was asking about them. I had just Holly while we were smuggled over the border. Technically, from Gilead’s point-of-view, I was a kidnapper. A terrorist.

 

How ironic.

 

“They’ll probably have some questions and will want to thank you. They’ll be in the lobby for you when you’re ready.”

“Okay.” I crossed my arms over my chest. I gave myself another glance in the mirror. I looked like a teenaged girl, broken. Abandoned.

“Oh, I meant to ask, is there any family in Canada I could contact for you?”

I deliberated on this. Like a roll of film feeding through a projector—no, not a projector. I’d suffered through enough fucking projector lectures for a lifetime. My mind, nevertheless, played a montage of what would probably happen if Sylvia was contacted.

We’d meet in the lobby, both in tears. She’d be holding Oliver—no, he’d be walking by now. He’d be looking at me, gazing at a stranger. Or even worse, he’d remember me but would feel like I left him. I’d see in those chocolate brown eyes all the birthdays I’d missed, all the nightmares and childhood anxieties I wasn’t there to chase away.

And Sylvia. She’d hug me, kiss me, but I wouldn’t be the same. I’d be too traumatized for her to love me. And eventually, eventually we would get comfortable enough and desperate enough to be close to each other. And her hand would dip below and before I could stop her, she’d feel what’s missing. Then we’d fight and she would be angry that I didn’t tell her. She’d dissolve into sobs, pitying me, treating me like a victim…

I couldn’t do that to her. To them. It wasn’t her job to fix me.

“No,” I answered Mrs. Tapping, “there’s no one.”

 

Moira

 

I sipped at the Center’s piss-poor excuse for coffee. Luke was tapping his feet and wringing his hands like someone going through withdrawal. He was drinking late these days. Too many times, I had to show up at Al’s Sports Bar and Grill because he was too soused to stand. I’ll call a cab and Al would help me wrangle him into the backseat. From cab fare to his bar tabs, it was lucky he had enough sense to pay me back. If he was anyone else, I would stop enabling him, but he was a broken man.

I finished the awful coffee, checked my phone. Three fifteen am. I had work in five hours.

I’ve learned not to get my hopes up. It was a miracle I got out, but June was a Handmaid – they were like pure crystal meth to a drug cartel. Anyone smuggling them out will suffer much more than hanging on the Wall.

I tried my fair share of drugs as a Jezebel. The Aunts actually made their PCP to give us since it helps with arousal. But the one thing it couldn’t do was make me straight. Even if I was, the clientele I serviced would turn off men forever. Over those months, I’ve learned that power-hungry, sexually-repressed men were the garden variety perverts. Not even the foreigners were that deranged, that unhinged. I did make a few friends, even lovers. It was something to keep you sane in between the sadists. I wondered how June even resisted killing Waterford, the creepy fuck. He was no fucking chaste vessel, the shit he wanted to do. I might be gay but I could tell he was way too overconfident, yet needy and wanting approval.

Once, I thought I was going to suffocate. I was deep-throating, lying beneath him, and he wasn’t back off to allow me air. The days of safe words were gone, though. I struggled, slapping his thighs, telling him I need to breathe. He stared right into my terrified eyes and _smiled_. Luckily, he came in the next minute or I would have passed out.

I’ve never even told my counselor that story. How would I even word it? “Oh, one time a Commander nearly choked me with his cock.” Even picturing myself saying that, my eyes prickled with hot tears of shame. Ashamed that I had a let a man take so much control. Granted, I didn’t have much to begin with, but where was my self-preservation?

Mrs. Tapping came around the corner. I expected June to be following her, but it was a thin, oval-faced brunette. She was holding a pink bundle of blankets. I expected to see June trailing behind her, but it was just her. Had we been lied to? Was this some kind of mix-up?

_A tiny hand poked out of the bundle._

My breath stopped, lungs resisting air. Luke was rigid beside me, staring on with stunned apprehension. They drew nearer.

“Mr. Bankole, this is Emily.” Mrs. Tapping said tentatively, “She was the Handmaid holding Holly when they arrived.”

“Holly?” I asked, my voice breaking. I thought of a certain Holly that had to be dead by now.

“Holly Nichole Osborne. June handed her to me to…to escape with her.” the brunette named Emily said, shifting the bundle so we could see her.

A baby girl with startling blue eyes gazed up at us wonderingly. Her arms reached out, legs kicking. She made small cooing noises, taking in her surroundings.

“June didn’t come with you?” Luke asked, seeming to deflate a little.

Emily pursed her lips, looking embarrassed.

“She’s incredibly brave, your wife. If I had to guess, she wants to find Hannah, to rescue her, too.”

Her own eyes were haunted, full of unspoken hurt. But she seemed sincere.

“I can tell you what’s been happening…at least, as much as I know. If you want.”

So, over the next hour, Emily explained all that had happened in Gilead, at least from how she knew it. She had been brought back from the Colonies because the Handmaid numbers dropped after the bombing of the Rachel and Leah Center. She explained how June nearly had a miscarriage and was hospitalized (Luke had buried his face in his hands at this and I was no longer fighting my tears.) She told us about , how Janine’s daughter, how she had nearly died.

“Did they figure out what was wrong with her?” Luke asked, incredulously.

Emily grimaced. “I heard a rumor that the doctor who was called in was a Martha. June told me Waterford refused to sign off on the transfer and his Wife went over his head. June helped her, the Wife, get the doctor for Angela, the baby. He…found out. I asked June what happened, she just went quiet. I can’t imagine what he did, but it was definitely horrible. He’s a real piece of shit, both him and Serena Joy.”

“Yeah, I know.” I agreed. “He’s a fucking asshole.”

Emily nodded while she fed Holly. Another refugee center worker had brought over a bottle of heated baby formula. Luke’s hands were shaking on his lap. I got another cup of coffee just to have something to do another than pick at my fingernails.

“Angela recovered after Janine held her for a while. The Putnams saw Angela as nothing more than a status symbol, so they never held her. Babies need to be held, to feel safe, to bond with their parents.”

“What happened to the Putnams? Was Angela taken away?” Luke wondered.

Emily gave another wry smile. “Mr. Putnam is like Interim Chief. He probably kissed enough ass to keep her.”

“So, they just let them continuing raising her?” Luke spat angrily. “All about saving children and they let a baby stay with assholes who don’t even hold her?”

“Commanders get promotions when their Handmaids give birth. Some Wives, too, are able to conceive. Some Wives even get sent to the Colonies.”

Emily continued the story, how security tightened and how Commander Cushing was becoming more of a tyrant than Waterford was in his absence. She explained how the Eyes were killing families connected with “terrorists”. She mentioned the Waterfords meeting with diplomats from Canada.

“Do you know who Nick is? Driver for the Waterfords?” Luke interrupted.

“Uh, yeah. He was the Waterfords’ Guardian. He’s also an Eye.”

Luke’s face turned stony, but he nodded like this confirmed an unasked question.

“He was the one who gave me the letters from Handmaids. We scanned them and put them on our website. It was viral by morning. Canada kicked the Waterfords back to Gilead, refused to discuss anything with them.”

Emily seemed greatly impressed. She gazed down at Holly, who had finished her bottle. Suddenly, Luke reached out for her and Emily looked surprised, but grateful. He placed Holly over his shoulder to burp her.

“This is going to be over someday, isn’t it?” she wondered.

Holly let out a great belch and we laughed for the first time in weeks. Luke cradled Holly gently, his fatherly instinct still intact.

“It was over the moment those letters surfaced.” Luke said darkly. “Everyone know what Gilead does and they’ll be begging to destroy them.”

I couldn’t help but wonder though…when? When will this finally be over?

 

Footnote:

1) Type III — Narrowing of the vaginal orifice with creation of a covering seal by cutting and appositioning the labia minora and/or the labia majora, with or without excision of the clitoris (infibulation). [source](https://www.who.int/reproductivehealth/topics/fgm/overview/en/)


	7. Take Me to Church

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Serena remembers the first time she met Fred; she welcomes a new addition to the household.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [other stuff I've written -- including an original work, Divisible, inspired by The Handmaid's Tale!](https://vocal.media/authors/cd-turner)
> 
> [Twitter](https://twitter.com/LadyChelseaofVA)

7\. Take Me to Church

_“If I'm a pagan of the good times_

_My lover's the sunlight_

_To keep the goddess on my side_

_She demands a sacrifice_

_Drain the whole sea_

_Get something shiny_

_Something meaty for the main course_

_That's a fine looking high horse_

_What you got in the stable?_

_We've a lot of starving faithful_

_That looks tasty_

_That looks plenty_

_This is hungry work…”_

_-“Take Me to Church” by Hozier_

_Serena_

Fred was getting a new Handmaid.

I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. He feigned righteous anger for a week, but then when he saw his promotion wasn’t being rescinded, he calmed down. He still wanted to find Offred, if only make an example of her, and that was more of a power ploy than handling recalcitrance.

I wanted Nichole back in my arms. I wanted to hear her voice, smell her head, breathe her in. I wanted the Lord to fill my breasts with milk to nourish her, I wanted her to be _mine_.

_I_ wasn’t even mine.

I hardly felt like training a new Handmaid. Had my fading desperation for a baby made me like Offred? I had no reason to like her other than the fact she had a baby before, but that was also the reason I hated her. She could bring life into the world, an adulteress who had stolen a man from his wife. She didn’t even last half a year before she was whoring around with Fred under my nose, then Nick.

I just had a brainwave. What if Fred had chosen simply because of her sinful past? I thought that Gilead would tamper down his weakness for infidelity, but apparently not. The day he went to address the Handmaids at a Salvaging, I crept into his office to view the portrait of us with Nichole. Letters were open on his desk, invoices and bills. I studied one that had expenses totaled from places called Jezebel’s, Salome’s Veil, and The Salt Pillar. Certain items were in code like “R7, 921245, J2946, serv. ren. 2.4.5.10.12., total = 315. 57/three-hundred fifteen blessings, fifty-seven laurels”.

He slept with whores but whipped me for saving a baby. He gave me only 100 blessings worth of yarn tokens per month but spent over 300 on prostitutes. His hypocrisy did more than shake me to the core, it had ruined me. I once had a place in the political climate but now I was little more than set dressing.

“Ma’am…” Rita said at the door the nursery. I kept up my show of desperation, but I also felt comfort in this room. Fred rarely came in here to see Nichole, he just wants an ear to listen to him complain.

“Yes?” I answered Rita, picking lint off a baby blanket.

“The new Handmaid is h ere. Shall I see her inside?”

I avoided her eyes. I had not told Fred she had a part in Offred and Nichole’s escape, but I couldn’t help feeling bitter.

“I’ll speak to her in the sitting room, thank you. Make a pot of tea and set out two cups, please. Oolong.”

“Right away, ma’am. Under His Eye.” she bowed, leaving the room.

“Under His Eye.” I replied robotically, caught in memories…

 

_I sat in church that Sunday, right beside Mom. She wore a blue wide-brimmed sun hat with tufts of chiffon and fake flowers that matched her ornate lace and silk gloves. There was never a curl or button out of place, nothing to suggest she was anything but proper._

_“Thelma, quit pouting, you’re in a House of the Lord,” she sneered in a whisper. She placed her hand on my knee, signaling me to quit jiggling my leg and cross both of my legs like a lady._

_I hated my birth name. It was an old woman’s name. Even at my Christian school where students were named Ruth Ann, Esther, Joab, and Ezekiel, I was still called “Old Lady Thelma”._

_“Why can’t I have a normal name?” I asked her once._

_“Thelma was your grandmother’s name—it_ is _normal.” she retorted._

_“It was normal…in_ her _time.” I spat._

_Her eyes darkened with indignant anger. “What? You want to have a name like what sluts name their half-breed illegitimate kids? Names like Crystal, Jaden, and D’Angelo?”_

_‘Half-breed’, believe it or not, was politer than the other words she would use. She came from a notorious line of plantation owners, all with ties to racist hate crimes. Of course, she’d deny each and every one of the accusations and cited that her donations to the inter-city kids proved she wasn’t racist herself._

_“And now, I am quite honored to introduce a guest preacher he’s a transfer from Valley Faith Academy, currently enrolling in this parish’s alma mater. Just shy of 17, his goal is to preach the Word of the Lord in churches all over America. Please welcome Fred Waterford.”_

_Clapping proceeded his assent up to the preacher’s podium. Unlike the majority of church officials in their pressed suits and expensive loafers, Fred looked like his mother had dressed him and not necessarily for church. Indeed, my own mother dug in her purse for elaborate “Footprints in the Sand” 1 fan, which she did whenever people doing, saying, or wearing something she greatly disapproved of. He wore a burgundy velour shirt over tan corduroy jeans (jeans were a taboo fashion item in both the church and school) over penny loafers. His facial hair was just coming in, shadowing his jaw, chin, and upper lip peach fuzz (also a taboo – men and boys had to be clean-shaven). _

_“Thank you for that warm welcome.” Fred addressed the congregation. “I feel so honored to be able to preach the sovereign Word of the Lord.”_

_A few of the pious old deacons in the back hollered, “Amen!” It was less of an honest approbation and more of a show of fervor for the sake of their standing in the church hierarchy._

_“The Bible is counting for less and less these days and it’s heart-breaking to see how many people suffering without the guiding light of God’s grace. Children are being turned away from God in the brainwashing public schools, teenagers are sexually promiscuous and hooked on drugs, and the government is sponsoring ungodly practices like abortion and using the working man’s dollar to dismantle traditional Christian values.”_

_I was captivated by him, both by his message and his easy-going demeanor. He seemed so genuine and determined in his mission. Right then, right there, in my 15-year-old body, I fell in love. Call it puppy love, mere obsession, but after the sermon, something within me locked into place. Like a magnet, I approached him, feeling greatly self-conscious. But there was an undeniable pull, like God was tugging me toward him. Mom was surely going to chat with her snooty friends, so I only had a window of time to do this._

_“Hello,” I said timidly. He was shaking hands with men of the congregation. I noticed that the deacons had not even budged from the back rows, but that wasn’t a surprise. Many of the higher-ranking church members’ seeming righteousness was only for show._

_His green eyes surveyed me; my breath caught. I extended my hand, defying my Mom’s instructions (“Always wait for the man to initiate a handshake; when a woman does it, it intimidates them.”) He took it, caressed it for a split second, and we shook hands._

_“I found your message so inspiring. America has forgotten its Christian origins. I just wish more people would be brave enough to address these issues.” I told him in a brisk, nervous voice._

_“Well, thank you very much. It’s quite wondrous to find people that share my vision. And your name is?” he asked genially._

_“Serena.”_

_I wasn’t lying, technically; Serena was my middle name. I always envisioned the possibility of legally changing my name upon my 18 th birthday. Something concise, but telling of my faith. Serena Grace? Serena Hope?_

_“Very nice to meet you, Serena.” He answered._

_It was like turning the page, the flyleaf of a new book of my life._

_How was I know this romance novel was a horror story in disguise?_

I went downstairs to the refurbished living room. Fred’s promotion had upgraded us to a large brownstone and he had given me a 1000 blessing Wife’s token to buy new furniture. I suppose he felt guilty – could he still feel guilt? – after letting the doctors chop off my finger.

We had a piano from Fred’s mother that I used to play to entertain guests. I hardly ever played it again after the revolution. It wasn’t strictly enforced, but women playing musical instruments was discouraged. It wasn’t a sanctioned hobby because it might tempt us to want to read music. I couldn’t even read traditional patterns for knitting because of the abbreviations for stitches and instructions.

It’s funny, the things you miss when you can’t do them anymore. My own copies of my books were now cinders with all my secular favorites. My father passed down a personally-signed copy of _A Choice, Not an Echo_ by Phyllis Schlafly. I had begged Fred to place it in the Vault rather than burn it.

The new Handmaid was a mite thinner than the last Offred had been. She was also blonde, but had a narrower face and fuller lips. She had prominent bags under her eyes, which were tinged red like she’d been crying. I wasn’t as ill disposed to this one as I’d been with her predecessor. Had it been desperation for a baby of my own or how unusually preoccupied Fred had become with the previous one? I expected his eyes to wonder, but not the rest of him to follow suit.

I guess I was too quick to forgive his transactions.

“Hello.” I greeted her.

She looked up, her eyes frightened like I had just screamed at her.

“Hello, ma’am,” she responded in a small voice.

“My name is Serena Joy. You may call me Mrs. Waterford. Your name is now Offred. Of-fred. Fred is my husband, Commander Waterford. Speaking of whom…”

I heard his footsteps outside the living room. He came in along with Rita, who was serving the requested tea on a tray.

“Greetings. I’m Commander Waterford, your Head of House.” he said with a smile.

I had to literally bite my tongue to keep myself from rebuking this statement.

“Sit down, then,” I said, forcing a light tone, “let’s have a cup of tea. Have a chat.”

I motioned to the sofa. I tried a smile, but it came on as a grimace, so I stopped.

“Dear,” Fred began, “the Handmaid is a servant, not a parlor guest. In any case, she can’t consume caffeine.”

I placed the teapot back down, my hands shaking too much to pour without giving away my rage.

The _nerve_. The absolute _fucking nerve_!

“Yes…” I answered, trying my best to level out my voice. “I’ve forgotten. The new restrictions. My apologies. Rita, can you show Offred to her room, please?”

Rita nodded agreement and motioned to the new Offred to follow. These days, the women in this house spoke in glances and gestures; the men spoke with threats and venom.

Fred took Offred’s place on the couch and poured himself tea. He added three spoonfuls of sugar and a dollop of milk, stirring until the amber liquid turned ivory.

“A Handmaid has already received two demerits.” Fred mused, sipping his tea gingerly.

I poured my own tea, two sugars, no milk. I stirred just to have something to do with my hands that were still faintly trembling.

“Who is it? What did she do?” I asked.

“Ofrobert. Commander Ellis’s. She defied her Mistress on one account and slapped a cattleprod out of an Aunt’s hand. She’s been sent to the Red Center for devotional training.”

The way he explained it, it was as if he was pleasantly rehashing the highlights of his workday, which I guess he was.

I sipped my tea. It was still too hot, but maybe burning my tongue will keep me in check.

“How exactly does the devotional training work? Is it different from re-education?”

“We set up some rooms with enclosed desks, kind of like those desks from old colleges, you know, the ones with dividers on each side. Each desk has a DVD player set into the back. We played Gilead-approved sermons for hours at a time. Then they’re taken to another room and given a special chemical agent to help tune them in for personalized therapy. They have regular meals and sleep over the week. I’m greatly optimistic, I might write some legislation to get the process integrated into the initial re-education.”

“Praised be. May God grant his forgiveness in due time.” I said, drinking more scalding tea.

We sat in silence for a few moments. He crossed his leg over his other, reclining back, a contemplative expression on his face. There were gray hairs in his beard. Was he, in fact, worried about Nichole? Or was it Offred, the one who escaped? Did he think he was love with her? She had gotten away with more than I did. I’ve caught him staring at her, when she was heavily pregnant. He thought I didn’t notice, but I did.

He had some…unconventional kinks in the bedroom I wasn’t always comfortable with. He loved receiving oral sex, but never reciprocated. He cited Exodus verses, saying it was “unclean”. I cited the verse where God smote a man for withdrawing before ejaculating, which he did plenty of back in our 20s. He refused to wear condoms and wouldn’t even discuss me going on birth control. He had a strange fascination in watching me shave my legs and loved to kiss and suck on my toes. He liked holding me down too much and found the process of making me orgasm annoying and taxing.

Then there was that night, after the gala in which we made love after so many months without. How had he managed to become better at sex when he wasn’t supposed to be having it? Was he practicing with the prostitutes? Were they teaching him how to be an efficient lover? How had I, his wife of 18 years, been usurped by a Handmaid and a group of whores?

 

  1. Popular poem known in many Christian circles, known for being depicted as one set of footprints beside the ocean in artworks. [Read the poem here. ](https://www.onlythebible.com/Poems/Footprints-in-the-Sand-Poem.html)




	8. My Kind of Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> June has a nightmare; the bunker comes together in a crisis and makes a big decision as a group.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anybody been keeping up with new photos of the third season? God, D.C. in Gilead looks fucking terrifying. And it wasn't even CGI either, for the most part, the cast and extras playing Handmaids were actually in D.C. . 
> 
> Anyway, hope you enjoy the chapter!
> 
> [other stuff I've written](https://vocal.media/authors/cd-turner)
> 
> [Twitter](https://twitter.com/LadyChelseaofVA)

8\. My Kind of Love

_“Cause when you've given up._  
When no matter what you do it's never good enough.  
When you never thought that it could ever get this tough  
Thats when you feel my kind of love.  
And when you're crying out.  
When you fall and then can't pick, you're heavy on the ground  
When the friends you thought you had haven't stuck around.  
That's when you feel my kind of love.”

_\--“My Kind of Love” by Emeli Sande_

_June_

_Somewhere, in the vacuous hollows of unconsciousness, I knew I was dreaming. My dreams had been disturbingly lucid, though, as if I didn’t have enough trouble in the waking world._

_I was playing Scrabble with the Commander, only he didn’t look the same. Black voids replaced his eyes, sclera and all, wormholes that sucked away all joy and dignity._

_He played his word vertically. “W-H-O-R-E.” O on the free space._

_Because dreams didn’t follow such logic as game rules, we had unlimited letters. Indeed, the tiles materialized from my hand like magic._

_I spelled horizontally from the E. “E-N-V-I-O-U-S.”_

_Vertically from my S. “S-L-U-T.”_

_Really? He couldn’t even fake some originality than a 16-year-old boy being denied third base?_

_My turn. Horizontal from the L. “L-I-M-P.”_

_Even from the empty black pools, I could tell he was scowling at me. I sneered._

_Beginning two spaces above the M. “L-I-M-B-L-E-S-S.”_

_Suddenly, Aunt Lydia was there, sitting beside Fred Waterford. She had no eyes, not even holes._

_“Remember…for our purposes, your arms and legs are not needed.”_

_“Mommy…” I heard Hannah say behind me._

_I reeled around to see Serena clutching a Handmaid by the shoulders, white wings covering her face completely. She looked up and I blanched at the look of my daughter’s face, tear-marked and sullen beneath the red and white._

_“The Handmaid pool has shrunken so low, we had to ask for citizens to sacrifice their daughters for the cause. Aren’t you proud of Little Offred? She’s going to serve God.” Serena said in a listless, robotic voice like she was an animated mechanical puppet._

 

I awoke with a start, sweat-soaked and shivering. In this compound, there were six bunkbeds crammed in each bedroom. I hadn’t awoken any of the others, though there were only three sleeping in here now. The others preferred to read in the makeshift library until they fell asleep on the couches and bean-bag chairs. In a way, it reminded me of college, only it didn’t make me feel hopeful for the future like actual college had been. I remembered those halcyon days of having aspirations and dreams. How did we learn it, that talent for insatiability? Always wanting something more, never stopping to appreciate the things we had.

I guess we turn a blind eye to our own silly antics. How were we to know we were happy? It wasn’t until we had nothing left that we appreciated the minute details, because details were all we could entertain ourselves with. When I’d been stationed at the Boston Globe, I dug through newspaper scrapings, trying to make sense of how the United States turned into Gilead. I guess the more you try to make sense of it, the more it refuses to. Reactionary movements never make sense, they just create chaos and inhumanity. I wonder if the death total of the Sons of Jacob takeover would rival the Holocaust.

Funny…I didn’t think I would ever be saying the phrase “rival the Holocaust.”

I heard rumors, of course. Always rumors. Emily never wanted to talk about the Colonies, which is understandable. I’ve heard some of them are like radioactive gulags. What was worse though, having your dead body exploited on the Wall or slowly dying in a toxic ash-heap? Some women chose the Colonies over serving as Handmaids. Can’t blame them, personally. Isn’t it really a choice though when the choices are rape or slow death? What was confusing to me still was Gilead’s decision to bring Handmaids back from the Colonies, after a time in which the radiation would have surely rendered them infertile?

Though, if I considered what Handmaids are actually used for, in the grand scheme of things, it’s not such a difficult conclusion to come by.

How long had I been down here? Two, three weeks? If Commander Lawrence had returned, I wouldn’t know. I assume he consulted with the Marthas and they passed on the information, if any. Was it that hard to get information about Hannah? I guess they had increased security since an unsupervised Handmaid gave birth in their living room.  Still, I was getting stir crazy in here, wishing I could do something more than watch the leeched Canadian news Win had managed to hack into.

_Watching the nightly news, nearly all of the bunker inhabitants piled around the old LCD TV. Several of the pixels were dead because they were too close to open trash fires from the electronic purges, but it was better than nothing._

_“Special intelligence from inside Gilead is reporting that two Handmaids escaped with a one-month-old infant. The family claiming possession of the child is none other than notorious Sons of Jacob conspirator Fred Waterford and his wife, former political pundit and author Serena Joy Waterford. Reports from their inner district detail horrific new rules for the Handmaids, including punishments such as forced indoctrination rituals, flogging, mutilation, and public execution by stoning._

_New disturbing stories unfold by the recent detainment of Quentin Rhodes, a Commander from the former state of Virginia who was attempting to escape to Russia. Rhodes was arrested at Heathrow Airport in London for treason, war crimes against humanity, multiple accounts of rape, and child sex abuse. Rhodes is one of many pedophiles suspected in an underground child pornography ring in what used to be Northern Virginia and the D.C. area…”_

_“Fucking hell…” Jason swore, putting his hands through his hand in pent up rage. “All that bullshit about eliminating pornography to ‘save the children’. Yeah, to ‘save the children’ all to himself, the kiddie-fiddler…”_

_“Oh, yeah, we all thought they were saints, the Commanders.” Win scoffed sardonically. “With their pomp, circumstance, and holy rape rituals.”_

_“They actually have their own little brothel.” I told them._

_All eyes turned to me, shocked._

_“Commander smuggled me in, slutty dress and everything. It’s a power play, screwing on the altar type of thing. God, the things I saw in there…”_

_They all stayed silent, expecting details._

_“They actually saved some of the lingerie from the purges. A lot of the women were sent there instead of the Colonies, former Handmaids and Marthas. Some of them were sex workers before. There’s even Aunts there. I saw sex workers dressed as Handmaids and Wives. I saw two sex workers in those outfits kissing while a Guardian pounded the Handmaid from behind. The creepiest was definitely when I took the elevator and saw a dude licking and sucking on a woman’s hand-stump, where it’d been amputated.”_

_They all looked horrified and sickened._

I hadn’t told them that I served Waterford before. Somehow, I couldn’t deal with them knowing that. I didn’t want to admit that I had been the plaything of the very man that helped bring upon this apocalypse.

I could have done something. I had the opportunity. I had him snowed at one point, believing that I was the wayward mistress. I could have put away a knife, a match, hell, just choked the fucking life out of him. I could have done it in Jezebel’s, in the hotel room. I could have taken the toilet apart like Moira had, taken out the lever, sharpened it. And then…and then…

_And then what?_

I could have fucking shot him. I had the chance. I was literally aiming a fucking shotgun at him and his cunt wife. I could have blown them both away, brains on the foyer wall, blood in the hall, sins atoned, soaking into the carpet…

Would that have made me any better though? Would have I been any better than the Eyes mindlessly hanging people, toting away bodies on pallet jacks, drowning teenagers in a pool…

I didn’t deserve their blood on my hands. After all, why would I give them the release of death when they deserve to suffer?

But why did I have to suffer, too?

 

 

At 7am, the entire bunker lit up, the alarms sounding. The first time this happened, I had burst out of my sheets in a half-daze, erecting myself in humble posture for inspection from the Aunts. When I realize the hums of the cattleprods weren’t coming, I finally realized where I was.

But this time, I was used to them because it was just the Marthas coming down or someone using the service entrance. This time was the service entrance, we found out. This entrance was also hidden and locked by electronic keypad, though it opened into an alcove into the garage. Supposedly, there was a couple of double agent Guardians that helped bring in supplies, escapees, and lent them a cheap car to drive over the entrance to the bunker. I didn’t dare leave the bunker to see this for myself—I was still a wanted woman.

Today, they were lowering down boxes on a pulley system, which answered my question of how they got the furniture in here. They must feed boxes and pieces of furniture to be assembled in the bunker. Jason unsnapped the harness around the box and tugged twice on the ropes, a signal to the people up top to pull it back out. He opened the box and revealed a variety of food items, non-perishable canned goods and the alike. They were Gilead-brand, without any written information. Wouldn’t want to tempt the women with nutritional information about black beans, would they? Scandalous!

 

Certain food production companies were stopped, like the ones churning out snack-cakes and chips, anything with fructose corn-syrup. Everything was entirely organic, no pesticides or hormones. It was a widely held belief in Gilead that GMOs were a leading cause of infertility, also plastic waste in the oceans and reservoirs. Yes, some of that was true…for infertility predominately in _men_. I’ve learned a long time ago that Gilead was not a regime based in accurate medical science.

 

I remembered an incident pre-war where people had to sign in to a scanning service in order to check out groceries. The official reasoning was a more “streamlined” way to speed up check-out lines, but we all knew it was monitoring how many “harmful” things we were buying. After the mandate where women lost their right to have money and own property, Luke nearly had a physical fight with a cashier because he was refusing to sell him Cocoa Puffs, Hannah’s favorite cereal. He even talked to the manager only to get lectured about how GMO foods were decreasing fertility rates and hurting children. I was surprised they hadn’t just stopped selling the cereal. It’s almost like they _wanted_ to be able to tell people what they couldn’t buy, like it was a game to them.

 

“Ooh, we have some contraband from Canada.” Jason commented, holding up a family-sized box of Pop-Tarts.

 

“I haven’t had one of those in forever…” Win said, taking the box and starting to open it.

 

“My daughter hated the frosted kind, I always had to get the plain.” I told them, smiling at the memory.

 

“You have any idea where she might be?” Win asked sympathetically, nibbling on an unwrapped tart.

“Some military family. Huge mansion.” I said, not wanting to share the whole fucky debacle. “At least, that’s what the Commander said. He probably lied.”

 

“I’ve heard stories of Commanders having more than one Handmaid, like if they’re particularly virile.” said Kerry, a black transwoman with cropped hair. They were having a hell of a time finding estrogen, so there was stubble where her facial hair was growing. She told me her story of how she was labeled a Gender Imposter and kept in solitary confinement until her hormones wore off.

 

_“Transmen have it worse. I’ve heard of them having to be surgically changed back if they hadn’t gone so far to have their hysterectomies yet. Those who have had the full deal, uterus and ovaries removed, they’re not even given the choice of the Colonies. Gilead finds them especially ‘wicked’. My wife was also trans. They killed her in front of me, hung her by crane.” she had explained, tears pooling her eyes._

“Just when you think you’ve heard the worst of them.” I said. I wasn’t even hungry anymore. I felt sick to the stomach, the weight of the situation settling on me, suffocating all hope from me.

 

“Guys, there’s been another bombing!” said Ida, a heavyset redhead who used to be a Martha.

 

We all abandoned the box of rations and piled into the tiny entertainment room around the flatscreen. The Canadian newswoman was looking particularly harassed, listening intently to her earpiece.

 

“Yes, we have confirmed reports of a bombing in what used to be Boston, called the New Gilead District. Buildings called Rachael and Leah Centers, or Red Centers, are used in Gilead to indoctrinate women and induct them into Handmaid slavery. The building in question is what used to be called Fenway High School turned into a Red Center. It is unknown at present if anyone was killed, though there are reports that this attack was waged by rebels of the regime. The bombings took place a little after 9am EST.”

 

Fenway High School…sadly, that wasn’t the Red Center I had been sent to. All lettering had not yet been removed from the walls, so we could tell that our Red Center had once been called East Boston High School. Had it been another suicide bombing? Were Commanders, Aunts, and Handmaids now lying in bloody heaps and pieces in the rubble, equal in death?

 

I couldn’t be happy for this. Like as not, these Handmaids were my sisters, siblings in suffering.

 

Suddenly, I knew how I had to spend my time. How to fight back. How had I been so blind not to see this? The written notes, pleas from my sisters in red, had gotten out and spread to all parts of the world. It was not going to be bombs made of metal and combustible material that ended Gilead...it was going to be bombs made of words, paper, and ink.

 

“Can I have a notebook and a pen, perhaps?” I asked Jason quietly.

 

His eyebrows rose, but he wasn’t surprised. “Inspired to action?”

 

“I need to tell my story. The real story.” I said. “Nothing’s going to change if we don’t change it.”

 

“Wait…” he said, like he was deliberating. “What if we all put together like our own testimonies of Gilead? Testaments of our experiences? We don’t have to put our own names. We could release them to the blogs in Canada. Win, we can do that right?”

 

“It would take one hell of a good VPN to keep our location secret. But I think it can be done.” Win responded. “If you don’t want to, you don’t have to. But it’s best if we can get as many accounts as we can. Don’t worry about length. It can be as short or as long as you want it. Hell, write a damn book if you want. We need to tell the world that this is not okay.”

 

We all exchanged smiles and encouraging words while Jason left the room momentarily to find as much paper as he could.

 

You didn’t need guns to build an army, pens and paper work just as well.


	9. You're a Woman Now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You can be afraid of death and still want to die. It’s the dying part that’s the hardest to do. You’re scared of the moments right before death: the pain, the desperation, the possible regret. But was it really called being suicidal if life was actually not worth living?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy shit, what did I just write? I swear, I just started writing and chapters started spitting out and now I have over 130 pages in Word.
> 
> [other stuff I've written](https://vocal.media/authors/cd-turner)
> 
> [Twitter](https://twitter.com/LadyChelseaofVA)
> 
> Warnings for graphic violence. Reminder to self to update tags.

9\. You’re a Woman Now

 

“ _I'm to meet my groom down by the sea_  
A perfect stranger to correct me  
The judges arrive in pairs of 3  
Don't be scared, just relax & breathe  
  
Good girls hold real still  
Surrender your free will  
They cracked the crown  
To pluck the pearl  
Here, on the jagged edge  
Of the world  
  


_You're a woman now_  
You've become a woman now  
The weight of the cradle has broken the bough  
You've become a woman now…”

 

_-“UR a WMN NOW” by Otep_

 

_Aunt Lydia_

“Commander Waterford, sir…are you sure this information is correct?” I asked, trying my best to stay composed. He had made room for my wheelchair by shifting chairs aside. I was a little surprised that he invited me to his office. I always had the impression he wasn’t too fond of him and the feeling was mutual. But this wasn’t a cordial visit.

 

 “Ofrobert? Really, a spy? How could I have not seen—“

 

“I don’t blame you, Aunt.” he said, though his response was weighted. I knew better to believe anything he said at face value. “Commander Ellis is in shambles, his Wife is pushing for Ofrobert’s execution.”

 

Mrs. Ellis was one of the more scornful Wives. Every second of Serena Joy Waterford’s baby shower, I saw Patricia eyeing Offred and the Wife maliciously. I suspected abuse of the Handmaid, not only by her hand but her husband’s as well.

 

“I believe I am correct in assuming the wage for rebellion is an automatic death sentence?” I proposed, sniffing back tears. “Even with the Handmaid numbers already so low?”

 

His eyes flashed at me, as though I had just accused him of something. I guess, in a way, I had.

 

“I’ve been told not to let anyone know…but, I feel like it would offer some hope in this testing time.” the Commander mused, shuffling through his papers. He looked shaken and over-tired. I supposed he had been at the Rachael and Leah Center, the second one that had been blown-up just a week ago. “We’ve managed to capture the whole of the Gulf District, at long last.”

 

I gasped. I couldn’t help myself. The rebels in the Gulf District had been relentless. Just like the Baptists to be stubborn.

 

“This is most wondrous news! Praised be His Name!” I uttered.

 

“And…quite a few secret enclaves of rebels were scoped out. They were keeping fertile women underground, in bunkers. There’s about 30-60 of them to be processed. Blessed be the fruit. The Lord might have brought us a tragedy in order to pave the way for a victory, a reward for our perseverance.” he said jovially.

 

We both exchanged smiles, but there was the elephant in the room. My joy was once again staunched as silence fell.

 

“But Ofrobert?” I questioned, almost pleadingly.

 

Commander Waterford gazed at me soberly. He put the tips of his fingers together.

 

“She’s a traitor, Aunt Lydia. Traitors don’t get second chances.” he answered solemnly. “This will be her fourth demerit. We need to make her an example for the good of our Republic.”

 

I swallowed the question I wanted to ask, shifting my wheelchair so the footrest ascended. Something about the tone of his voice made me uneasy, like he was excited to forgo this first processing of Handmaid Denouncement.

 

“She’ll be out of surgery now, won’t she?” I asked.

 

The news of her traitor status had pushed her status up to three demerits, but Waterford felt this betrayal was worthy of four.

 

Commander Waterford nodded. “I may have ordered something more…severe. To make the message sink in, you know.”

 

I didn’t return his smile that time. He was too calm, too kind. I dealt out punishment of the girls with the heaviest of hearts, but his demeanor was more lightened than I’ve seen in weeks.

 

He stood up and assisted with wheeling me out of his office. Nick, his Guardian, pushed me the rest of way down the hall, out of the front door, and eased me down the portable incline that fit over the stairs.

 

“Is Mrs. Waterford doing any better?” I asked the Guardian.

 

“As well as she can be with her child missing.” Nick answered quickly. He rolled the collapsible incline and stowed in the van.

 

“I don’t suppose you’ve heard anything about Offred or the child, have you?” I asked Nick.

 

He didn’t make eye contact, which was suspicious on its own. He only spoke when spoken to, hardly ever smiled. Reminded of my youngest son, Nathanial, in a way. Secretive to a fault, always going against the grain.

 

“Afraid not, Aunt Lydia. We’re all praying for their return, one way or another.” he responded, though it sounded rehearsed. This wasn’t unusual, the appearance of Gilead officials putting on airs for show. But was this to curry favor or hide away some darker intent?

 

I always had the sneaking suspicion he might be an Eye.

 

“Praised be His Mercy.” I commented as he helped me shift into the backseat of the Behemoth. The lower-ranking Guardians only had Chariots and Whirlwinds, which were less energy-efficient, requiring more stops at charging stations.

 

“I understand you, too, have lost some brothers in the bombing of the Fenway Red Center. I just wanted to offer my condolences.” I told him mournfully.

 

If he was surprised by this, he didn’t show it. “I’m just grateful that they managed to get most of the Handmaids out in time. God will reward their sacrifice.” He started the car, putting it into drive.

 

“Praised be.” I responded.

He started driving and we both fell into silence for the remainder of the journey. I always lapsed into daydreams during these rides, thinking of how things had changed for the better. But there were always concessions to be made, however grave…

 

_Before the first Red Centers were built in the New Gilead District and beyond, the women were held in detention centers. Escapees and rebels were processed, checked for fertility, and assigned to their roles. Many of the girls had to be brought in sedated because they were putting up a fight. I made special note of the stubborn ones, reminding myself to charge my cattleprod for maximum corrective power._

_Scanning for fertility was an arduous process. It was hard enough to get the women to tell us when their last periods were or if they had them at all. So willful, these whores. All they had to do was just tell us and we wouldn’t have had to strap them in the stirrups. A particularly nasty process, an Aunt had to insert her fingers into the birth canal and determine if the cervical mucus was dense or clear. If it was dense, it indicated a fruitful womb; if it was clear, barrenness._

_“You can’t do this…you just can’t do this…” said a woman Aunt Dylan was examining. She placed the probe into the vagina, turning on the monitor it belonged to._

_“Already seeing scarring of the uterine walls…” Aunt Dylan considered, her voice darkening considerably._

_“You wicked girl.” I hissed. “How do you feel now, then? Are you free now, babykiller? Have you gotten everything you wanted?”_

_“You have no fucking right—“ the woman cried, struggling, trying to pull her legs free._

_Aunt Dylan removed the probe and slapped the woman hard against her cheek._

_“_ You _have no right over life and death, Unwoman. Get off the table and go straight to hell.” she seethed._

_“Get up…” I barked at her. I tugged her hard by the shoulder and lead her over to the group of Guardians near the exit. She continued to yell expletives and call us names like ‘Nazis’ and ‘fascist cunts’. “She joins the rest in the pit.”_

_“Right away, ma’am.” one Guardian said, escorting her outside the edge of a dug grave. Six other Unwomen already knelt in front of the uneven dirt. As the seventh joined the procession, seven Guardians all positioned themselves behind the Unwomen and aimed their handguns._

_“By His Hand!” one of them shouted. Seven rounds fired off, sounding like fireworks._

_The Unwomen fell into the trench, blood spurting like red ribbons among the ground._

 

 

I had to admit that when I saw Ofrobert in recovery, I was horrified.

 

Nick insisted on rolling me into the lobby, in the elevator, and down the hall to the recovery wing. He stayed standing beside the hallway door, keeping watch. I moved closer to the bed where Ofrobert lie. She was still asleep, dozing off the sedation. I had expected some dire consequences, but not quite this far.

 

Both her hands had been removed and hastily sewn into stumps. There was a bizarre metal contraption like binder rings pierced through her top and bottom lips, keeping them firmly and permanently closed. Her face was bruised, probably from where she was beaten down by the Guardians. Her fingerprints had been found on an undetonated IED in the ruins of the demolished Red Center. But this had uncovered further intelligence as she was interrogated. She’s been sending messages back and forth from a rebel group called Mayday.

 

So, that made two terrorists in my coven of Handmaids. But I didn’t see it as a punishment from God…I saw it as a sign, a confirmation that I had not been hard enough on the girls.

 

  Ofglen only had her tongue removed to get the message across. But this seemed superfluous. Why metal rings though? Wouldn’t surgical sutures have worked better, less chance for infection?

 

However, she wouldn’t live long enough to get an infection.

 

Her heart-rate was climbing, signaling that she was coming out of her anesthesia. She was going to be especially disoriented with no hands and rings in her lips. Sure enough, she started to panic, eyes still closed, and groans and strangled screams muffled by her stitched mouth. She made distressed and pained screeches which were worsened by her attempts to wrench her lips open. She looked down at the stubs that had once been her hands and she was growing steadily more hysterical.

 

“Ofrobert! _Ofrobert_ …”

 

I wheeled as close as I could to her bed and placed my hand on her shoulder. She recoiled, looking at me like a crying newborn. Tears escaped my eyes, but I had to keep her still.

 

“Ofrobert! Quit trying to open your mouth, it’s wired shut. It will just hurt more.” I told her loudly over her wails.

 

She tried to put her nonexistent hand to her mouth and then used her arm to feel the metal rings. She cried, her nose running. She would suffocate if her nose became blocked.

 

I got a tissue out of a nearby box on the end-table and placed it over her nose.

 

“Blow, dear. You’re not going to be able to breathe if you don’t.”

 

She did, a couple of times, and I disposed of the tissue. 

 

“I see you’ve awoken…”

 

I awkwardly shifted back and forth as I tried to turn my chair around. Commander Waterford strode up the recovery ward floor, his black suit contrasting outstandingly against the opalescent white. Nick the Guardian even looked surprised for the first time ever that I’ve seen. Commanders hardly ever visited wayward Handmaids, especially ones that have been operating in a terrorist group and blown up a government building.

 

He had bothered to groom himself. His hair was slicked back, his beard cleaned up and without loose hairs. He looked like he might be going to a special dinner after this, perhaps rubbing elbows with fellow Commanders.

 

He stood bedside Ofrobert’s bed, towering over her. From where I was sitting in my wheelchair, he looked imposing…and might I say, _vindicated_?

 

“Handmaid 427009, you have been accused of conspiracy against the State and shall be handed punishments befitting four demerits on your record. Starting at 8am tomorrow, you will be delivered before the Committee and your Household to receive your flogging. Then you will stand before the Holy Tribunal as they denounce you. After that, you will be delivered to the Town Square to be stoned to death like the worthless traitor you are.”

 

He gave this speech with a disturbing amount of passion, like he was basking in the control. I looked to the Commander and back to Ofrobert, who was staring at him with undeniable rage.

 

God forgive me, but…for that moment, I was on her side.

 

 

_Alma_

 

It’s true, then. Your life does flash before your eyes before you die.

 

I might as well be already dead. I was mere flesh, cut into pieces like poultry. I felt the ghosts of my hands, the remnants of their motor function. I licked the underside of the metal rings, the sides of them in my mouth. I don’t think they did this often, or at all. Maybe I was a special case. I had blown up the Red Center, my tribute to the late Ofglen. It was only appropriate I’d be stitched together with shrapnel.

 

I should be scared. I should be pleading for mercy.

 

But I feel…resigned. This was another kind of escape and I wouldn’t have to do it myself. People misunderstand suicidal depression. You can be afraid of death and still want to die. It’s the dying part that’s the hardest to do. You’re scared of the moments right before death: the pain, the desperation, the possible regret. But was it really called being suicidal if life was actually not worth living?

 

If these were my last moments of painless life, I’d better enjoy them…memories were our only entertainment, our only glimpse of family, our only taste of true love…

 

_Sam smiling at me from behind his copy of_ Slaughterhouse Five _. That’s how we met, our love of Kurt Vonnegut and shitty B-list schlock-horror films. That first night we made love on the couch after laughing our way through_ House of Wax _. He kissed me out of the blue. He didn’t rip off my clothes and get to the sex like most guys have done in the past. He unwrapped me inch by inch, savoring each expanse of my skin with his lips, then his tongue…_

But it wasn’t just the sex I remember him for. I wanted to spend the rest of my life with him. I wanted to wake up beside him and talk about the banal news of the day. I enjoyed just watching him cook and paint. I could have been happy the rest of my life just sitting beside him, eating popcorn, and watching Netflix.

 

They hung him on the lamp-post just a few blocks away from the apartment. They accused him of hiding me. They found out about my status, probably through their purges of the medical offices. I had viable ovaries AND I was a twin! How could I keep myself away in such a troubling time?

_Corey, my twin brother, and I speaking our own made-up language. Riding bikes on the beach coast during summer vacation off school. Standing beside his soon-to-be wife as he was married. He would have paid the favor for us had Gilead not happened._

_Playing with my niece and nephew, buying them ice cream, watching my brother dip their toes into the ocean tide as they giggled. Gilead would’ve gave them them to “proper” families. Probably not even together._

_Sunday dinners with my mom’s family. Pasta and garlic bread, a whole long table full of good food and laughter. Sam discussing the Stanley Cup playoffs with Dad, Mom beaming as Corey’s kids showed her their school photos. All those photos were probably in ashes, burned in trashfires. Gilead was so adamant about erasing the past, the parts they disagreed with…like a Catholic family and an atheist husband._

Gilead crept into the most sacred of memories, tainting them. And they mean to do this, to eliminate any of part of us that remained from the time before. We were not meant to be just vessels, but _empty_ vessels to be filled. We weren’t to be tarnished with lingering ciphers of the Old World. We were to be scraped clean of any and all preconceptions, burnished with gold powder over the copper, the cracks and blemishes painted over.

 

This is the emptiest I’ve ever felt. I’ve been scoured, taken out of my body, replaced with a poisoned version of myself. There was nothing left to kill, just a shell. All of my time…all of the years I could have lived, snuffed out like a flame on a candle. That’s what I was…a melting candle within a tin holder, wick crusted black with burned wax.

 

Even though I was never a true believer, I hope I get to be face to face with God. Because I would ask one simple question.

 

“ _Why?”_

 

 

I was awoken to Guardians on either side of me. Somehow, I slept. Mourning the rest of your life being condensed to one night brought a lot out of a person.

 

“Get up.” barked the impatient Guardian.

 

They wrenched me out of my bed by my sore arm nubs until I was standing. I gazed at them wearily, not bothering to make eye-contact.

 

“I’ll help you get dressed in the gown.” one of them said. They all looked the same sometimes. Stony-faced, chiseled features, joyless expressions. Funnily enough they reminded me of Buckingham Palace guards, without the ludicrous feather-duster hats. What happened if these Guardians smiled or looked beyond our white wings to see our face? It certainly happened in the brothels, the underground circles. There was a surprisingly number of Eyes working as Guardians, not just spying on the household but the Commanders as well.

 

The Guardian, a square-jawed man that could be no older than 20, rolled up the dress at the sides, opening the neck-hole. Not just a nightgown, it was a birthing dress, white cotton with an elastic waist for obvious reasons. Except this one had some alterations. The second Guardian unhooked my hospital gown, causing me to blush furiously. I guess this was all about humiliation. I wormed my way into the dress and smoothed down the bodice and skirt.

 

On the bust of the gown was a photo of the female symbol crossed over with a bold red “X”. _Unwoman_. The extra fabric only served to accentuate my failure, both to be dutiful and to conceive.

 

I motioned to put my boots on, but they stopped me with a hand on my shoulder.

 

“No shoes.”

 

Sock feet it was then.

 

They escorted me, hands gripping shoulders on either side of me, out of the hall. Male nurses and doctors lined the walls, heads turned downward. Was this my denial, the shaming? Oh, no, I was being condemned by men.

 

What a new concept.

 

Outside the front doors, I looked up to see Handmaids in a procession on both sides of the walkway. This did surprise me. They were in the humbling pose, white wings obscuring the faces as they stared down at the ground. Unlike when Handmaids were seeing Janine being taken to her next posting, these Handmaids did not bade me “Praised be” or “Blessed be”. They were quiet, penitent, and condemning me. Beyond the gates, Marthas and Econowives rubbernecked, whispering back and forth. Did they know what was to be done to me today? Would they all be at the Tribunal to throw diatribes at me?

 

The Guardians led me to the black van, helped me get seated on the cold metal bench, and shut the doors. The last thing I saw of Gilead were my sisters in red, daring not to move.

 

_Fred_

 

My brothers and I waited patiently for the escorted Handmaid to arrive. Commander Ellis sat beside the podium with his Wife, looking crestfallen. Their Guardian and Martha also sat close by, equally heavy expressions on their faces. Since this was hardly the time for small talk, we settled for uncomfortable silence. The strap table was in front of the podium, looking menacing with its many restraints. They would keep the Handmaid prone while bounded to prevent struggle.

 

The night before I had visited a few of the gentlemen’s clubs, schmoozing a few Russian visitors that wanted to discuss a possible meeting to establish some trade. They were actually willing to _give_ us an allotment of viable women from their country in trade for oranges, wheat, and oats. The only problem would be securing a transport of two-hundred women without alerting the UN or outlying countries. This was most surprising, yet greatly welcome since the Canadian diplomacy mission had failed so horribly.

 

The minutes ticked by. The other Commanders were reading over their field notes and latest drafts of legislation. I was editing the latest additions to some proposed edicts, hopefully to be delivered to the Consulate later.

 

“I would like to take a moment to congratulate Commander Meeks in his efforts in the Gulf Districts. The Angels of his division were certainly formidable adversaries against the Baptist scourge.” I said, raising my water glass to Meeks.

 

He smiled proudly in turn, though he was very tired.

 

“Yes, I am optimistic that this will improve the trade routes to Florida for the Angels to finally wipe the Baptists and Catholics out of the Southern Districts.” he proposed.

 

We all heard the doors open to the meeting hall. All talk died down as the main chamber doors pushed inward. I sat up attentively, putting my pen down.

 

The two Guardians escorted the Handmaid Ofrobert to the middle podium. The Unwoman design on a birthing gown had been Ellis’ idea. Normally, she would have been muzzled with the brown head-strap, but obviously it was quite unnecessary. I admired the design of the metal loops. Just having stitches wouldn’t have stuck out as clearly as the sun glinting off metal rings.

 

“Let us begin…” I motioned. “Handmaid 427009, you stand here guilty of conspiracy against the State. The punishment is flogging, a public shaming by the Tribunal, and death by stoning. Commander Ellis, you are to deliver 40 lashes with your belt to the arms, the feet, and the buttocks. Are you within the means to deliver the punishment or do you need special accommodations?”

 

“I am capable of delivering the punishment, I do so swear.” Commander Ellis admitted, standing up. He unbuckled and slid his belt out of his pants, folding it lengthwise.

 

His Wife bristled as if she would have liked to have a turn, staring malignantly at Ofrobert, her lips pursed as if sucking on lemon candy.

 

“Guardians, strap up the Handmaid, lying down on her stomach, head faced towards us.”

 

The Guardians followed suite, tugging along the Handmaid to the table. She stared at us with fear, yet defiance in her eyes.

 

That would change quickly.

 

She stood before the edge of the table, taking all of us in.

 

“Get on the table or I’m going to make you.” snapped a Guardian.

 

Ofrobert climbed on the table, sliding to the end on her stomach, lying down before the Committee. The Guardians tightened the straps over her middle, her wrists ( _stumps,_ rather), and finally, her legs and feet.

 

“Whenever you’re ready, Commander Ellis. By His Hand.” I said.

 

Commander Ellis stood before Ofrobert, who was now crying profusely on the table. Oh, women. Always crying when it’s too late to beg for leniency. That might have worked for the pussy judges back then, but not with us. Not now.

 

“’ _In like manner also, that women adorn themselves in modest apparel, with shamefacedness and sobriety; not with broided hair, or gold, or pearls, or whorish array…’_ ” Commander Ellis quoted from 1 Timothy. “ _’But (which becometh women professing godliness) with good works. Let the woman learn in silence with complete subjection. But I suffer not a woman to teach, nor to read or work, nor to usurp authority over the man, but to be in silence. For Adam was first formed, then Eve. And Adam was not deceived, but the woman being deceived was in her transgression. Notwithstanding she shall be saved in childbearing, if they continue in faith and charity and holiness with sobriety, thou shall bring forth children.’_ By His Hand. _”_

He began with the arms. He winded his arm back, making sure to hold the metal belt part in his hand. We didn’t want to be scrubbing blood out of the wood-grain. Her screams were mottled and constricted by the rings. Commander Ellis didn’t count aloud, but I kept tally marks on the paper in front of me. 10, 15…20…25…

 

At 37, the skin broke. Blood oozed from the welts, but it was minor, not gushing. They were more bruised than lacerated. He stopped and then began to do forty more on the other arm. Her cries of pain had dwindled into wide-opened sobs. Her face was still, eyes glassy.

 

Finally. She had broken.

 

Commander Ellis was sweating when he began the feet. Maybe I should have advised him to leave off his blazer, wear a breathable shirt even. But he was persistent, not breaking stride. By the 40th lash of her second foot, her socks were stained red, cotton sticking to the wounds.  He finished off the flogging of her backside with particular gusto, making sure his message was cleaved very well into her flesh.

 

He finished, sounding winded.

 

“Water, Brother Ellis?” I offered, pouring him a glass and handing it over the divider.

 

“Thank you…” he said, taking the glass and draining it. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “Great, now I need to drop by the house and get a new belt.”

 

 

_Alma_

Pain didn’t even begin to describe it.

 

To think, I never thought I would be wishing that he just had to rape me in front of the Committee. In a way, this was rape, by all of them. They had forced their hate into me until it burst, burning me from the inside out. This was pain that transcended beyond nerve endings. I was drowning in my own anguish.

 

I had nothing left.

 

Nothing.

 

I felt them carry me by the armpits over their shoulders. My raw feet were skimming the ground, but I wasn’t there anymore. I was already drifting between life and death. If fate was merciful, I’d die by shock. But I didn’t believe in fate, just like it didn’t believe in me.

 

We were outside again, my sisters bowing once more, but I could hear a few of them sobbing. My toes scraped against the concrete, feet rendered useless.

 

“To the Judgement Hall, if you please.” said Waterford behind me. “I’ve designated a place for her to kneel.”

 

It was a short walk. Well, drag. The Judgement Hall was just a few feet away from the main chamber. This was where they held the Prayvaganzas and child bride weddings.

 

A chorus of voices met my ears, angry ones. I was on a stage now, surrounded by women in red, green, and blue. I kneeled in the middle of the runway, spotlight trained on me.

 

I was not going to bow to them or beg for my life. I collapsed onto the floor, shielding my face from the light.

 


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It was a pattern I was noticing much too often…he was happiest when the women underneath him were suffering, both physically and metaphorically. He didn’t fool around with the Handmaids because he honestly admired him, he did it because they were his playthings, perfect marionettes to manipulate and torture."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tissue warning!
> 
> [other stuff I've written](https://vocal.media/authors/cd-turner)
> 
> [Twitter](https://twitter.com/LadyChelseaofVA)

_10\. Run_

 

 _“Light up, light up_  
As if you have a choice  
Even if you cannot hear my voice  
I'll be right beside you dear…

 _Louder, louder_  
And we'll run for our lives  
I can hardly speak, I understand  
Why you can't raise your voice to say…”

_-“Run” by Snow Patrol_

                                                                                                                                   _Nick_

 

It eats away at you, the guilt.

 

Well, if you can still feel guilt.

 

I did this to stay alive, but at what cost? I had fooled myself so long into complicity, swallowed every lie. There was a time in which I thought I was doing something worthwhile. I’ve seen so much death, so much suffering. I’ve allowed myself to become numb.

 

I am a fucking coward.

 

Commander Pryce had been at least somewhat kind. He cared for the welfare of the Handmaids in spite of what was being done to them. He admitted fault whereas Commander Waterford was apologetic about the ridiculous things his colleagues would say.

 

It had to end, this subservience. He had dangled my daughter in front of me, claiming her as his own. But this wasn’t about being a father. He always brought up the fact that he would have rather had a son. This had always been about prestige, the same reason he had assigned Eden to me like a farmer auctioning off a dairy cow.

 

I wanted to shoot him when he asked Mr. Spencer about his second daughter. The leer in his voice, like he was considering marrying her off to me to replace Eden as if she was just some broken appliance. I may have not loved her, but she had been wise among her years, though naïve. Her father was as much of a bastard as Waterford, selling out his own daughter for approbation. She deserved so much better.

 

I had gotten Holly and June out, but I hadn’t thought about how I was going to escape.  I was an Eye, I knew secrets about Gilead that they would never want going past the border. I bore the insignia tattooed on my wrist, my car had GPS trackers on it, no doubt. A Guardian driving without a passenger was suspicious. We weren’t supposed to take joy-rides, we were servants.

 

When I saw Alma in the hospital after escorting Aunt Lydia, something inside me snapped.

 

Nothing was going to change by being silent and obedient. Alma was at least doing something, screaming for change. I wanted to tell her she was brave and that June had finally gotten out. But not now. A Guardian talking to an unfamiliar Handmaid would be suspicious.

 

To my intense astonishment, Commander Waterford had arrived at the ward. Who had driven him here? There weren’t taxis or Uber in Gilead, travelling wasn’t a national commodity. Perhaps he made arrangements with the next door Guardian, rode with his Commander. He was in one of his best pressed suits and looked well-groomed for the first time in weeks. It was a pattern I was noticing much too often…he was happiest when the women underneath him were suffering, both physically and metaphorically. He didn’t fool around with the Handmaids because he honestly admired him, he did it because they were his playthings, perfect marionettes to manipulate and torture.

 

He wasn’t here out of sympathy. There’s a reason the previous Offred hung herself before June, and the one before her was sent to the Colonies. He took dignity from them until only a husk remained. Like a vampire, he drained them dry of their freedom and hope, casting them aside to rot.

 

 He stood before the bed, his back to me. He was holding something in his hand, a talisman of some sort. I thought it may have the key to the box which held the Household Bible, but it was too big for that. Then it dawned on me.

 

It was a rusted silver dancer figurine, like one you’d see revolving in a music box.

“Handmaid 427009, you have been accused of conspiracy against the State and shall be handed punishments befitting four demerits on your record. Starting at 8am tomorrow, you will be delivered before the Committee and your Household to receive your flogging. Then you will stand before the Holy Tribunal as they denounce you. After that, you will be delivered to the Town Square to be stoned to death like the worthless traitor you are.”

 

This, too, sparked realization in me.

 

Alma was going to be the scapegoat, the understudy in this play of domination.

 

 

I took Aunt Lydia back to the Red Center first and handed her over to fellow Aunts to wheel her in the building. Commander Waterford told me to take him to Commander Ellis’ for a luncheon. No doubt, I would be expected to wait with the Marthas and carry boxes of wine and bourbon out of the cellar.

 

I had the power to kill him now.

 

My foot itched on the acceleration pedal. All I had to do was floor-it and swerve into a tree. He didn’t wear his seatbelt, his head would collide with the half-raised partition at full force. Maybe I would survive. If we both died, it’d still be worth it, right?

 

Instantly, however, I thought of Holly. Her baby blues were becoming lighter, the same blue as June’s eyes.

 

No, I had to fight. I had to at least try to stay alive. This wasn’t about just me anymore, this wasn’t about a job. I may not have the firepower to start the revolution, but I had the eyes and ears to unfold Gilead from the inside out. Power in knowledge might seem cliché, but power in secrets…that would topple a nation in due time.

 

 

Commander Ellis’ lived in a slightly bigger house than the Waterfords. Mrs. Ellis, too, took up watercolor painting and decorated with vases of garden-picked flowers like Serena Joy did. This house had two Marthas. The amount of Marthas a house needed depended on the scale of the estate, more floors to clean and all. Commander Ellis tended to have more luncheon and dinner parties to entertain visitors. Waterford’s suggestion of homestays had passed through the Consulate and declared, so every so often, the Ellis’ played hosts to foreign diplomats.

 

This time, it was a Russian politician and his wife. They looked quite out of place in the orderly class colors. Mr. Iosif Orlov and his wife, Motrina, were in designer clothes, something outlawed in Gilead. Mrs. Ellis both reviled and envied Mrs. Orlov’s clothes. I saw Patricia eyeing Motrina with conspiratorial shrewdness. Commander Ellis, Commander Waterford, and Mr. Orlov discussed superficial topics such as how the climate change is affecting Europe and parts of Russia. Then they discussed the fertility crisis and how Russia was dealing compared to Gilead.

 

“We have banned contraception and abortion practices outright, but the socialists are so very stubborn and don’t realize the severity of the condition,” Mr. Orlov explained.

 

“It’s always the godless that refuse the true word of the Lord until too late, isn’t it?” Waterford joked, taking a measured sip of bourbon.

 

“I personally believe this plague to be punishment for letting humanity be mottled and darkened as time goes on. Have you ever noticed how this fertility crisis tends to affect Caucasians more than ethnic races?” Mr. Orlov suggested.

 

Oh. _Oh._

 

He was one of _those_.

 

“Hmm, I’d have to check the statistics on that, but I have noticed a higher black birth rate than white, yes…” Waterford qualified.

 

_Jesus fucking Christ._

“Then you would agree that we are being eradicated? The Anglo-Saxon race is being exterminated, has been since governments have gone egalitarian.”

 

Poison in the bourbon bottles. That’s all it would take. The smokey flavor would mask rat poison. There was gallons of rat poison in garages all over Gilead since cats became illegal to own. Or I could plant something on him, a bug to be found and he would be executed as a spy.

 

“Very interesting, yes…again, I’d have to check the data, of course.” Waterford commented. I could tell that not even he was quite _that_ strict about eugenics.

 

“Anyone care for dessert? Gina makes a lovely peach cobbler.” Mrs. Ellis commented in false bravado, therefore ending the uncomfortable conversation.

 

 

   While driving Waterford home, I saw him typing furiously on his laptop. I doubt it was anything Orlov said, he was still preparing for the Denouncement tomorrow. All were invited to shame the wayward Handmaid. For some reason, I remembered high school when we read _The Crucible_ , how they would put wrongdoings in the stocks in front of the whole town. It was one big spectacle. Even the horrible things were seen as entertainment.

 

When I rolled into the driveway, there was already a black van there. One with an eye painted on the back.

 

This was never a good sign.

 

“Uh, hello there, gentlemen. Any new developments?” Waterford asked, getting out of the back of the Whirlwind.

 

The official Eyes of God were given more prestige than the plain-clothes operatives, for obvious reasons. They were the State’s version of G-men.

 

“Out-of-border operatives are confirming reports of seeing Nichole Waterford with an escaped Handmaid. They’ve made it into Canada, sir. I’m sorry.”

 

Commander Waterford turned to stone. His eyes furrowed and he looked very much like a bird of prey. His jaw set like he was grinding his back teeth in rage.

 

“Thank you very much. God rewards your noble service.” he growled, then he stomped up the steps and through the front door.

 

“Blaine…anything good to report?” the Eye asked me in a lowered voice.

 

“A Russian diplomat and his wife. Doubt that they’re spies, just opportunists.” I told him quietly.

 

“Very well. Keep us informed.” the Eye concluded, opening the door to the van and climbing back into the driver’s seat.

 

I immediately, but carefully, made my way back into the house. Something was going to go down. He had been unhinged and he was going to do something drastic.

 

I got into the living room just in time. Waterford wrenched Serena Joy’s knitting work out of her lap and brutally smacked her across the face.

 

“DID YOU LET OFFRED TAKE NICHOLE? HUH? _TELL ME_!”

 

Serena Joy started to cry, holding her hand up to her bruised cheek. “F-Fred, pl-please…calm down…”

 

“DID YOU REALLY LET THAT CUNT TAKE OUR CHILD AWAY?” he screamed in her face, spit spraying across her forehead.

 

I had my hand already on my gun. I would have to reveal myself, reveal my true identity.

 

But Rita had already beaten me to the punch. She rushed over and stepped in front of Serena, her face resolute, her eyes boring into Commander Waterford’s

 

“I did. And I would do it again.” she snarled. “No man that beats a woman deserves to raise a child.”

 

Commander Waterford didn’t strike her, but was apoplectic with uncontained fury.

 

“You _dare_ undermine my authority, Martha?” he hissed in her face.

 

“You are no authority. You’re just a son of a bitch that can’t stand the fact that a woman stood up to him and _won_.”

 

I expected a slap, it was even curling in Commander Waterford’s fists. But he merely stood aside and marched down the hall into his office, the doors slamming shut behind him.

 

“Well, I’ll be goddamned.” I told Rita.

 

She gave the slightest crease of a smile. “I have my badass moments, too.”

 

 

Later in the day, black vans weren’t coming to collect Rita, so I assumed Waterford had relented. He wouldn’t want his brothers to know that a woman had emasculated him. But he would find a way to get revenge, one way or another.

 

I went to check in the greenhouses for Serena Joy. I definitely didn’t like her, but I felt like her façade was crumbling. At least, I hope it was.

 

Sure enough, Serena Joy was repotting lilies. The greenhouse smelled of soil and the sour sweet stench of blooming flowers. She surrounded herself in flowers because it was the only brightness left in her household. Everything else was shadowed with bitterness, contempt, and selfishness.

 

Women used to divorce their husbands for domestic violence. Now divorce was synonymous with adultery. When I met Luke, June’s husband, I wanted so much to discover he was an arrogant bastard or he had a drinking problem. But he was just a man suffering silently, missing his wife and daughter.

 

I could not feel sorry for Serena Joy in some respects. She had tortured June literally to the breaking point to where she tried to commit suicide. But a part of me felt like I understood her turmoil. She had wanted a husband like Luke who respected her rather than a man like Waterford who reduced her as lesser than because of her gender.

 

June and I were supposed to be a “no strings, no feelings” thing.  We both craved contact and some form of control. My bed was the only place she could be dominant and I didn’t mind it one bit. We alighted in the sins we committing, the downright filthy things that would have an old Wife clutching her pearls in horror.

 

_Her hands gripping my hair, her hand slipping past my belt, into my boxers…the slope of her curves where my hands fit perfectly as I fucked her…her nails scratching my scalp, fistfuls of hair as I licked her to ecstasy…_

 

If God had a threshold for sin, I was long past my limit, straight to hell.

 

“He wasn’t always like this…” Serena Joy said and I jumped. I didn’t realize she had noticed me. The bruise on her face wouldn’t be easily covered, with concealer and foundation being things of the past. “He was a really sweet husband. The revolution hardened him. Even though he killed rebels in the name of God, it changed him. He’s turned into this power-hungry monster. My husband is gone.”

 

I didn’t know what I could say to this, considering the fact that I didn’t believe it. The monster part, that was true. But he was always like this, he’s just hidden it from her…

 

_Sitting at the bar, Jezebel’s, holding a beer but not drinking. Some Chinese executive was lighting the end of a cigar for Waterford while his date looked nauseated. The previous Handmaid before Offred was brunette and slightly plumper. Her dress looked like it’d been fished out of a 1920’s themed costume store with significantly lower neckline. Waterford was a breast man, a fact I did not need to know, but did._

_Not wishing to watch this spectacle, I’d ventured down to the kitchens._

_Beth greeted me with a smile, holding her palm. I fished in my pockets for the crumpled envelope._

_“Birth control, condoms, Plan B. All there.” I said, handing over the package._

_“All in hypocritical abundance…you okay?” she asked._

_“Waterford’s a cunt.” I told her lightly. “Here with his Handmaid.”_

_“The Commanders are all cunts.  And some of them are switch-hitters.”_

_She delighted in the greatly hypocritical secrets of Commanders, lived on them. I guess it’s one way to live through the reckoning._

_“Where’d you hear that?” I asked as she slid some pasta my way._

_“Unfortunately, I saw it in full force delivering a four-course meal to Room 283. Two Guardians in latex bondage gettups, not a Handmaid or hooker in sight. Commander Hayden if you need some quick leverage.” Beth elaborated. “This is unrelated, but I saw Waterford, Putnam, and Ellis partaking in the Japanese bureaucrat geisha girl orgy. It’s an image I’ll never fucking get out of my head. So, if Waterford tries to tear you a new asshole, just tell him, ‘Ichika Amari wants her scarf back.’”_

_I laughed and tasted the spaghetti._

_“Ahem…”_

_I looked up and there was an Aunt standing there. This wasn’t the rigidly strict kind, though she was still a bitch. She had golden eye-liner on her upper lids._

_“I heard that you are Waterford’s driver?” she asked in a waspish tone._

_“Yes. Is something wrong?” I wondered._

_“Follow me, please.” she motioned, walking out of the back door._

_I did and she led me up back up to the main floor. Next, she strode into the hall of the ground floor rooms and took a key out of her pocket, inserting into the designated hole. This door was different, it didn’t just open with a card key, there was a lock mechanism drilled above the card reader. She opened the door, stood aside so I could enter. Inside, I saw this was the security room with a row of TV monitors. The bathrooms were shown, the hotel rooms. Visions of illicit sex were shown on each of the hotel room cameras, the Aunts flipping between channels of different rooms._

_“This is a video of last weekend, Saturday, around 9pm.” the Aunt announced, turning up the volume on a particular TV and turning down the rest with a master controller._

_The footage shown was of inside the hotel room where Waterford was staying. That was weird because I hadn’t taken Waterford here last weekend._

_“What’s wrong? Am I boring you?” Waterford asked the hooker he was with. She was one of the sex workers, not a Handmaid, but she was wearing a slutty version of the red robes, wings, and had her tits hanging out._

_“I’ve told you time and time again that I don’t kiss on the mouth. It’s not personal.” the sex worker told him._

_“And who are you to tell me what I can and can’t do?” he said, his temper flaring. “You’re just a whore, a degenerate! Setting down bullshit rules because you women think you can dictate everything in the bedroom.”_

_He struck her, hard, against the jaw toppling her over. The white wings fell off and she cried on the floor, her whole body shaking. Waterford dragged her out of the floor and threw her back on the bed._

_“I’m going to show you all the things I can do to you. And you can’t tell anyone anything.”_

_The Aunt fast-forwarded the rest. Evidently, Waterford had tied the hands of the worker, gagged her with a sock, and violently raped her._

_I would have expected Waterford to be arrested once I told Pryce about this tape._

_But nothing happened._

_The entire thing was covered up. The tape was destroyed. The Aunt who had informed me had mysteriously gone missing._

_Waterford wasn’t just a bastard. He was an_ untouchable _bastard._

 

“Anything you need me to do?” I asked Mrs. Waterford.

 

She looked at me with sincerity. “Protect Rita.”

 

The sentiment was clear, even if she didn’t want to admit it.

 

I nodded. “Under His Eye.”

 

“Under His Eye.” she repeated.

 

 

The next day, I wasn’t expected to arrive at the Judgement Hall until the Tribunal commenced. Waterford decided to ride to the municipal building with the neighboring Commander once more. He had come to my place above the garage and told me he had made other arrangements, telling me to sleep in for the morning. I thanked him, suspecting that he had ulterior motive. He was a man that never acted unless something benefitted him.

 

I cleaned my gun, taking it apart to clean the pieces. While I was hunting for my polish, I knocked something in the floor. It was one of Eden’s elastic hair-bows. It was fitting, a small memory of her. I slipped it into my jacket pocket. Maybe it’d bring me luck, perhaps some of Eden’s faith.

 

I went into the kitchen to look for something to eat. The new Handmaid sat at the table, eating oatmeal and toast. Rita was busy at the stove, scrambling eggs and baking a cake for Serena Joy to bring to a Wife later. This was a rare moment. Serena Joy spent most of her mornings and afternoons in her garden. Conversations could be held without fear of repercussions.

 

Rita was thinking along these lines, too.

 

“So…what was your name before…all of this?” Rita wondered, her back still turned.

 

The Handmaid seemed surprised that she was being talked to at all. It was strictly forbidden, but since when had we been sticklers for rules? She was hesitant to answer, eating another spoonful of oatmeal.

 

“Heather…” she said finally. “My name was Heather.”

 

“It is still Heather.” I told her. Rita served me some coffee with me asking. “Thank you.”

 

“No, it’s Offred now. That name is forbidden.” Heather said, suddenly nervous.

 

“Well, to us, you’ll be Heather. In front of them, yes, you’ll be Offred.” I said. I thought I should smile, but I feel it would be weird in this context.

 

“What did you do before this?” Rita asked.

 

“I was an Econowife. I had a husband and son. They hung him because he was a Muslim. Took Adam away.” she said. She said this with a straight face, like she was resigned to the fact that they were gone.

 

“It’s okay to be angry. At least, around us. We’re all a little angry.” Rita comforted her.

 

She gazed at us with a heavy expression. “I never knew that this wasn’t a choice. Being a Handmaid. We were all told that women chose to be Handmaids. We hated them for that. We thought they were whores.”

 

“The Marthas tend to be women that have adult children.” Rita explained. “Like, ‘Congratulations for doing your duty to raise children! Now clean my fucking house. Praised be.’ That kind of bullshit.”

 

Heather was astounded at her crassness. I was, too, come to think of it. This was a Rita as I never saw her, one who just didn’t give a fuck anymore.

 

“Half-past nine. The Tribunal starts at 10. Get going, Guardian Blane.” Rita quipped as I drained my coffee cup.

 

“What’s a Tribunal?” Heather asked.

 

“A Handmaid’s is going to be shamed and then stoned to death.” I said bluntly. “Welcome to Gilead. It fucking sucks.”

 

I didn’t give a fuck anymore either.

 

 

Guardians lined the back walls of the Prayvaganza Hall as the Marthas, Wives, and Handmaids filed in. The Commanders were in the pit, as always, having a front-seat view of the stage. Serena Joy, Rita, and Heather decided not to attend and I couldn’t blame them. If I had a choice, I wouldn’t be here either.

 

It was just as well. They only wanted the ones who wanted to come condemn the disgraced Handmaid. I didn’t see the telltale olive green or a wheelchair in sight. Aunt Lydia probably couldn’t stomach seeing Alma  humiliated.

 

How ironic.

 

Some Aunts had come, if only for security purposes. They intimidated the Handmaids enough to ensure their good behavior. They might as well be German Shepherds wearing red capes.

 

Alma was brought in and I was immediately sickened by the sight of her. She was bloody and bruised, drenched with sweat, and her feet had been beaten past endurance. The Guardians carrying her climbed up on stage to deposit her in the spotlight trained on the end of the platform. Wives and Marthas screamed profanities at Alma while the Handmaids stood in silence.

 

“YOU’LL BURN IN HELL, TRAITOR!”

 

“GOD WILL RIP THE FLESH FROM YOUR BONES!”

 

“GOD HATES YOU, TRAITOROUS WHORE!”

 

Alma collapsed in a pile, unable to carrying her own weight.

 

Waterford ascended the stairs to the stage now, approaching the crumpled heap of Alma. He stood in front of her, hands behind his back.

 

“Isn’t this what you wanted? Attention?” he sneered at her.

 

My own hands were trembling. I was breathing too hard with suppressed rage. All of the things he had done, all of the fucking crimes he’s gotten away with, his treatment of June, his daughter, Eden, his own wife.  I’d been licking his boots for years now and it was bubbling within me, like lava preparing to spew from a volcano.

 

“ _’Her prophets are proud, men of deceit; her priests have defiled the sanctuary; they have done violence to the Law_.’ This Handmaid has neglected her duty and tarnished the sanctity of our blessed Republic. What say you, women of Gilead?” Waterford called to the crowds.

 

He was fucking _enjoying_ this. He was like a circus performer, exhibiting all the lengths of his power, his reach.

 

“STONE THE WHORE!”

 

A marching chant of “Stone the whore, Stone the whore!” had broken out. Alma was crying, the punctures around the metal ring contraptions starting to crack and bleed.

 

_Enough._

 

While they were all screaming in adrenaline-fueled alacrity, I snuck away from my station.

 

“Dude, where are you going? This is getting good, man.” said some jug-eared Guardian to my right.

 

“Uh, I suspect someone might have a bug.” I lied. They weren’t listening though, distracted by the din of the crowds.

 

I had my hand on my gun, I just had to get close enough.

 

Somehow, someway, by moving silently in the back of the bleachers, I rounded the very edge of the three tiers of seats, slipping down through the rails, into the pit.

 

This part wasn’t going to be done quietly though.

 

But…when were starts of revolution ever quiet?

 

I stepped out into the open, marching toward the stage. The Commanders started muttering and the women as well. I didn’t notice what they were saying. I only had eyes for Waterford.

 

“Yes, Nick? Has something happened?” he asked quietly.

 

I took out of my gun and aimed it at his leg. I had only seconds now before I was inevitably gunned down.

 

“June sends her regards, fucker…” I hissed, firing a shot. It landed in his knee as he let out an ear-splitting shriek of pain.

 

I didn’t want him to die. I wanted _him_ to hurt so much that _he wanted to die._

 

 There was a calamity building behind me. I aimed my second shot...at Alma.

 

In that split second as I was lining up the iron-sight, her eyes pleaded. Pleaded for release, for mercy.

 

For death.

 

My second bullet pierced her skull, into the forehead, her face relaxing as blood pooled beneath her. No longer in pain.

 

 


	11. Onward Christian Soldiers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Hadim said to turn on the TV.” Odette said.  
> “What channel?” I asked, somehow knowing the answer before she said it.  
> “Doesn’t matter.” Her eyes didn’t meet mine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Were you worried? Believe me, I was, too. Writer's block is a bitch. 
> 
> This is a flashback chapter about how I thought the coup happened, the one which changed America to Gilead. I'm taking my sources for the date of the attack from a newspaper seen in Season 2 as June is exploring the Boston Globe warehouse. "The Capitol Hill Massacre" is my own name for it. In the books, it was called the "President's Day Massacre" but in the show it doesn't happen on President's Day. I got this from the Handmaid's Tale wikia/fandom page, so don't quote me on that.
> 
> [other stuff I've written](https://vocal.media/authors/cd-turner)
> 
> [Twitter](https://twitter.com/LadyChelseaofVA)

11\. Onward Christian Soldiers

 

_“At the name of Jesus_

_Satan’s host doth flee;_

_On then, Christian soldiers,_

_On to victory!_

_Hell’s foundations quiver_

_At the shout of praise:_

_Brothers, lift your voices,_

_Loud your anthems raise!_

_Like a mighty army_

_Moves the Church of God:_

_Brothers, we are treading_

_Where the saints have trod;_

_We are not divided,_

_All one Body we—_

_One in faith and Spirit,_

_One eternally.”_

_-“Onward Christian Soldiers” by Sabine Baring-Gould_

****

_Friday, September 12th, 2014_

**_The Capitol Hill Massacre_ **

****

_June_

The weirdest thing about that day is that it started like any other Friday. Luke and I woke up at the alarm, turned on the TV in our room to watch the morning news while we both took showers. We both put on our work clothes. I slapped on a little bit of makeup, put some jewelry on while he trimmed his beard. He hip-bumped me playfully while we were brushing our teeth. Normally, Hannah would be awake by now, coming to find us, but we didn’t hear the telltale noise of her closet door opening to get dressed.

“Hannah, sweetheart, it’s time to get up and get dressed!” I called down the hall. Her door was still closed, covered in her drawings and painted wooden letters spelling her name. I opened the door and she was still in bed, but not asleep. She wasn’t her normal cheery self, so I was a little worried. I sat on the end of her bed and gently shook her. “Hey, buttercup. What’s wrong, honey?”

“My throat’s all scratchy…” she groaned, her eyes heavy like she hadn’t gotten a good night’s sleep.

“How bout I make you some oatmeal? Nice and hot, might soothe your throat.” I said.

My own mother was never this gentle getting me up for school. She was a doctor, so everyone else but her own daughter was capable of being sick. Once when I was seven and wanting to stay home from school, she put cold water in a water pistol and deluged my face in icy jets, cackling all the while. She did this until I got out of bed. Nope, no fever for this one. Tylenol would fix anything.

That being said, some children’s Tylenol would probably make her feel better. Neither of us could stay home with her today, our vacation days were maxed out. Mom was busy at her clinic and Luke’s mother was in Manhattan visiting her sister. The school had a ridiculous fever policy, though, and Hannah did feel a little warm.

“Okay, here’s the deal sweetie. Will you try going to school for just a few hours while I try to schedule a doctor’s appointment and get time off this afternoon?” I suggested.

“Okay…” she said, getting up.

“Okay. Do you want that oatmeal?”

She shook her head. “I want waffles.”

“You’ve had plenty of waffles over the weekend. Any more and you’re going to start leaking syrup.”

She giggled.

“See, you must not be feeling that bad, now. How about one of Mommy’s fruit parfaits?”

“What’s parfait mean?” she asked, opening her closet.

“It’s fancy yogurt with granola.”

“Okay…” she said again, pulling some clothes out.

I smiled at her as she picked out her outfit. She was here, she was happy. How could this day ever go wrong?

 

“Did you medicate Hannah this morning to lower her fever?” the nurse asked me impudently.

I wanted so much to slap the fucking clipboard out of her hands. The _nerve_ of this bitch!

“She was just a little warm, I gave her some Tylenol…” I said, but she talked over me.

“Did you medicate her to bypass the school’s fever policy? So you wouldn’t have to miss work today?”

I stared at her in disbelief. Who was she to tell me what I could and couldn’t do with my own child?

“She was just a little warm…she wasn’t sick.”

“Apparently, she was.” the nurse responded.

She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes.

“I understand, Mrs. Bankole. We have busy lives.” It was almost like a sneer. “But children are so precious. We have to make certain they are in a safe home environment…with fit parents.”

It was obvious in her tone of voice that she didn’t consider me a _fit_ parent. I looked through the window at my daughter who was playing with her bag and a stethoscope. This was beyond invasive. All of this rudeness and high-horse attitudes from strangers. It wasn’t just an isolated thing. I couldn’t go to the bank without being assessed by a snotty teller like I had dared to bare my cleavage and legs in her presence. I was tutted at in grocery stores by not just old women, but women around the same age I was. It’s like they knew something I didn’t.

“I just have a few more questions, Mrs. Bankole.”

“Osborne,” I snapped under my breath.

“Excuse me?”

“That’s my name, June Osborne.” I said defiantly. “What are your questions?”

The ride home was arduous, for some reason the traffic had picked up significantly even though it was only 2pm. All that bullshit, just so the nurse can tell me she had a severe head cold. I stopped in at the drug store to pick up some children’s cold syrup. I told Hannah that she could pick out one snack. While picking up batteries, I noticed that the pharmacy window had a new sign on it:

BIRTH CONTROL, MORNING AFTER PILLS, AND CHEMICAL ABORTAFACIENTS WILL NO LONGER BE DISPENSED THROUGH THIS PHARMACY.

There was no “Thank you for your consideration” or source to research the law that was now prohibiting this. It was like an accusation. I noticed that the aisle with the pregnancy tests no longer had boxes of condoms.

Hannah came back with a bag of gummy bears. I went to the counter and paid for my things, then we went home.

 

I stayed with Hannah throughout the night, listening to the developing stories of the catastrophe through an earbud off my phone. Islamic terrorists were the immediate guess but something wasn’t making sense. You didn’t just sneak into the House of Congress and Senate through a secret tunnel. How the hell would they have planted a bomb in the Oval Office without capture? The White House would be locked down like Fort Knox.

Suddenly, I got a text. Moira.

Moira: june, have u seen the news??????

June: yeah, been listening to npr since this afternoon. Wtf is going on???

Moira: idk, man. Riots are fuckin breakin out tho. Bunch of alt-right cunts celebratin, the fucking assholes. And no one is stopping them!

June: celebrating? Celebrating what, terrorism?

Moira: they hated Obama, man. White nationalists are circle-jerking right and left

Moira: I don’t think this was terrorism. Odette says it’s probably a false flag attack

June: by who? Who would have the manpower to arm 30 dudes and sneak them into Capitol Hill?

Moira: maybe they didn’t have to sneak.

June: You watch too much “history” channel

Moira: Odette stayed home because someone spray-painted “dykes are baby-snatchers” on front of the clinic door

June: Jesus. What does that even mean???

Moira: lot of those fuckin morons think lesbians having kids is “stealing” them from hetero couples

June: is this actually happening???

Moira: fraid so. You just wait. They’ve been building up to this.

I wouldn’t exactly know what “this” was until the months went by. Martial law was declared, yet it wasn’t government-issued military. Instead of camo fatigues, there were men in black toting machine-guns and ear-pieces. Something was running the government, whomever survived. The Sons of Jacob were actually giving to charity to help those affected by the attacks.

We tried to go on with life as it had been before. Radio news and TV stations were telling us that “everything would be fine, to go on with business as usual.” Then the news dried up and stations started playing more music. That one day when Moira and I were jogging when my card didn’t work was the sign that things were not going to be fine and life wouldn’t be usual. Moira had to go underground and depend on gay men for her money savings. I couldn’t work, so I stayed home with Hannah. I didn’t trust the School Pool anymore, there had been lots of disappearances. Mothers, fathers, children.

I begged life to slow down, to let me have more time with my husband and daughter. But it was like one minute I was cut off from my savings and the next, I was running with Hannah through the woods. If only I just sucked it up and ran far enough to the checkpoint, if only I fought back for her.

I couldn’t fail her again.

 

_Emily_

I woke up beside Syl that morning, listening to her breathe. I ran my fingers down her bare shoulders, her forearms. I followed behind them with my lips, kissing the places I had touched. She rolled over onto her back, welcoming my advances. Halfway through divulging her of her tank top, I heard a knock on the door.

“Mommy!” called Oliver through the door.

We both laughed. Like clockwork, he was, always sensing when his mommies were having alone time. I pecked her lips and wrestled my way out of the sheets. I opened the door and saw my son waiting impatiently on the other side of it.

“Cartoons!” he shouted, stamping his feet.

“Shhhh…Mommy Syl is still sleeping, honey…let’s go to the kitchen.” I told him. I picked him up and made zooming noises as we went down the hall. I helped him down the stairs and he trotted his way into the kitchen.

“What cereal do you want?” I asked him as he climbed up onto a chair.

“Fruity!” he said, cackling.

Oliver had ADHD and I didn’t give him his medicine until a little after 7:30am, so he woke up especially hyperactive. I turned on the TV we kept in a corner under the cabinets so Syl and I could eat breakfast and watch the news, but it was also for Oliver so he would he focus on something and eat his breakfast. I tuned the TV to PBS Kids and he sat entranced as I poured him a bowl of Fruity Pebbles and poured milk over them. I got a spoon out of the drawer while starting the coffee maker. I always left fresh coffee grounds in the maker after loading the dishwater after dinner, so I could easily brew coffee in the morning without the hassle. I handed Oliver the spoon and he dug into his cereal, watching Sesame Street. While pouring myself a bowl of Frosted Flakes, the doorbell rang. Who the hell was knocking on doors before 8am? Jehovah’s Witnesses weren’t as widespread as they were before.

I opened the door and a middle-aged woman stood there in a salmon pink business suit with pleated skirt. She looked like a Sunday school teacher that was running for Senator.

“Hello, there. I’m Mable Hawkins, Census Enumerator for Missoula. Is your husband home?” she asked.

“Census? It isn’t even a leap year.” I told her.

“Well, we’re changing things up this year. We just want to get the best data in order to compile an accurate portrayal of our citizen statistics. Now, is your husband home?”

I blinked slowly at her. Like I couldn’t answer census questions without a Y-chromozone present?

“My _wife_ is. But I would happy to answer your questions.”

“Uh…” she panned out, her smile fading. “Yes, uh, forgive me.” Her voice had grown perceptively colder. “How many people are in your household?”

“Three. My wife, me, and our son.”

Her mouth twitched as though wished to say something impulsively. She wrote down my answer. “So, no adult men live in your household at present?”

“That’s kind of what a lesbian marriage means, yes.” I snapped. “Occasionally some male delivery drivers drop off packages, but otherwise, no. No men.”

Her eyes regarded me with undeniable disdain. She faked a smile and continued on. “You identify as a lesbian, correct? As does your wife.”

“She’s bisexual, but yes, I’m a lesbian.”

“I’ll just put down lesbian for both.” she quipped, scribbling away.

“Why is that even a question on the census form?”

“The country is in a crisis. We need to know what we’re dealing with, how many children there are in each district. And we need to make sure they are in safe environments with _appropriate_ parents.”

“Fuck you, you nosy bitch…” I hissed, slamming the door in her face.

She marched over to bang on the living room window.

“DYKES DON’T DESERVE THE GIFT OF CHILDREN!” she screamed through the glass.

She stormed back up the drive, kicking over our potted marigolds in her wake.

“What the fuck was that?” Syl said from behind me.

“Just some homophobic bitch. I bet she wasn’t even from the Census Bureau.”

“Lot of women like that. I can’t even go to the preschool without being leered at.” she admitted.

We both thought it was a phase, a backlash.

But it was too suspicious, too widespread, like a plague of hatred and ignorance.

 

“Alright, next we’re going to be going over autoimmune disorders. The simplest way to define autoimmune disorders is that the body is attacking itself.” I said this while writing it on the board. “Who can give me an example of one?”

“Bet CJ could…” said one of the students I admit that I didn’t like very much. Peter was the spitting image of a conservative university donor and was nearly just as condescending. CJ was an outwardly gay student with flamboyant pink and purple hair. I braced myself, knowing anything I said would be taken up with a rich father with influence in the committee.

“Why are you always starting shit, bro?” CJ said back. “Just trying to learn, here.”

“How about AIDS, Professor? That’s an autoimmune disorder.” Peter suggested with an edge of malicious intent to his voice.

“Yes, it is. One of the more infamous types of autoimmune disorders. It starts out as HIV and can progress into AIDS if not counteracted well with antiretrovirals—“

“Isn’t it true that a majority of men that contract HIV are homosexual males?” Peter asked teasingly.

“Yes, a majority of HIV sufferers identify as gay men. Correlation does not automatically mean causation though. Yes, it is true that gay men have a substantially higher risk of contracting HIV, but heterosexual sex can also cause the transmission of HIV.” I explained.

“Could you argue that the prevalence of homosexual relationships is worsening the spread of HIV and AIDS?”

_I will not throw my marker at him, I will not throw my marker at him. I need this job, I love this job…_

“Could you argue that heterosexual relationships cannot contribute to the spread of HIV and AIDS?” I shot back.

“Seems like if the CDC was so adamant about reducing it, we’d be quarantining those with the virus.”

“So you want to send gay people to ghettos, huh?” CJ piped up. “Maybe some concentration camps?”

“It’s not a bad idea, actually.” Peter said.

I stared daggers at him as the others gasped at his brazenness.

“Get. Out.” I seethed. “I will be reporting this to the Dean! You’ll be lucky if you’ll get to stay in this class.”

“You’ll be lucky if you remain in this University. Hell, even the country.”

“OUT. NOW.” I screamed.

Smiling like the ostentatious prick he was, he gathered his bag and books and walked up the hall to the doors.

“Why do they even let those pricks in the college?” CJ asked.

“Rich daddies and enough donations.” I muttered under my breath, as I continued the lesson.

 

I came home exhausted at half-past 1pm. I had to cancel my last class because I was roped into the Dean’s office. Peter had reported me and the fucking committee would be taking his side if it wasn’t for Dan’s last second rebuttal. Syl was in the living watching the news, holding Oliver close to her.

“I had such a shitty day and it’s not even 3pm.” I said, wrenching off my jacket, slinging my briefcase into the hall.

“Em…come see.” Syl said in a small voice.

I walked over into the living room and sat beside Syl and Oliver.

“A group of men with guns starting shooting in Capitol Hill. The President’s dead. There was a bomb planted in his office. No one knows where his wife and children are. Almost all the Congress and Senate members have been confirmed dead.” Syl caught me up.

“What’s going to happen to us?” I asked, a question that was more of a statement than a real inquiry.

“Martial law. Riots. Economy collapse. Violence.” Syl answered. Always the history professor, but she didn’t offer these responses out of theory.

I remember when I was 6-years-old in school. They wheeled the TV/VCR cart in during the morning’s math lesson. We were shown footage of towers in New York crumbling, people jumping out of the skyscraper buildings. We watched but we didn’t really understand what was going on. We were told that this was an awful thing done by mean people. We had watched history being made.

I didn’t want this to be history, but by God, it was being made.

 

_Moira_

I’d spent a majority of that morning updating the website, Queer Women’s Collective. It seems like I was having to mod out hate comments for hours on end. I wasn’t bothered by them. You put anything progressive online, there were going to be assholes.

“I need to hire some moderators for this bullshit. How many times can I read Leviticus 18:22 to where it’s fucking emblazoned in my skull?” I complained aloud.

Odette was on her laptop in bed finishing off paperwork for her clinic.

“You’d think they’d have some variety by now. Maybe some Romans?” she suggested mockingly.

“Or maybe try some love and tolerance. You know, the thing that Jesus preached about?”

“The fertility thing is mostly happening in men, anyway, I don’t know why they’re so pissed at us.” Odette reasoned.

“Well, it’s the common scapegoat…hurricanes, Democrats winning, corrupting children, let’s all blame the gays!” I said, finally clicking Save on a whole thread of edits. “I just don’t know if I pay someone to read this shit all day.”

“What about June? She’s an editor, right? Be nice to be able to give back after she gave us that loan for the car repair.” Odette suggested.

“Nah, she’s got Hannah to care for. Santos might do it, he doesn’t take shit from anyone.”

“Didn’t he and Jorge get engaged recently? I congratulated them on Facebook.”

“Santos said they might be postponing the actual wedding until things die down. You know, the primaries got the conservative motherfuckers looking for any reason to ruin someone’s happiness.”

I closed my laptop, tired of looking at computer screens.

“Speaking of weddings…I might have found someone to marry us.” she said excitingly. “I might have even gotten a church or at least a venue, somewhere that isn’t in a forest. Like I want to be head to toe in chiffon with ticks in my hair.”

I crawled onto the bed, curling up next to her. She always wore some flowery scented perfume, not musky or overpowering. The aroma had always entranced me, since the day we first met. I never asked her what the perfume was – I wanted it to remain a mystery, something I associated with her.

If I had to tell someone what being in love was like, I would tell them it was like the fact that you could watch the person do the most mundane things and just be excited that you were there to see them and be with them. So I watched her work, reviewing recent medical journals. She’d point out new developments in the field of obstetrics and I would have no idea what she was talking about and still be hanging on every word.

I checked my phone. Texts from June about a nosy bitch nurse at the hospital. I pulled up the keyboard on the touchscreen.

Moira: wait, why were you at the hospital??? You okay?

June: the school called an ambulance and took Hannah to the hospital. She was just a little warm this morning, but I guess she was running a fever. Apparently giving Tylenol to your daughter is a crime now

Moira: what a bitch. What did she say??

June: Kept asking all these nosy questions like who takes care of her when she’s sick, where my husband works. She kept calling me Mrs. Bankole even though I told her my name is Osborne.

Odette was reading the texts along with me.

“That nurse should be reported. That’s so unethical.” she commented.

Moira: you should report her

June: haha. To who? They won’t care. She was filling out this questionnaire as well, so it’s not just random questions.

“You know, they wanted me to start asking my patients those questions as well? Told them it was greatly unethical and asked for my name, clinic address, and profession. I hung up on them. Bureaucrats might come smashing down my door, but I will defend my patients’ privacy till my dying breath.”

Moira: Odette says that she’s been getting those questionnaires and asked patients to fill them out. She refused. Government can’t do this shit man. We have to send a message

June: I’ve got a kid. Sending a message just doesn’t seem safe right now. Shit, I’ve got to go. Doctor’s calling us back.

Moira: Maybe we’ll have dinner later or something?

June: we’ll see. tell Odette I said hi

“I could really go for a massive burger right now…” Odette prompted.

“Does that factor into your paleo diet?” I asked jokingly.

“Think about it…one big greasy barbeque burger from Hattie’s Bar and Grill…”

“Mmm…think I know what I want to eat…” I purred seductively, kissing her. She giggled, shutting her laptop.

And no work was done for the next hour and a half.

 

We walked along the sidewalk after gorging ourselves on Hattie’s Kickass Barbeque Ranch Burgers. Odette sipped on a chocolate milkshake as we walked hand-in-hand to the end of the block.

Some kind of protest was happening in front of a nearby bakery.

“Oh, shit. Someone warned me about this. You remember that baker that refused to make a cake for a lesbian couple last month?” Odette asked.

The protesters were actually in support for the baker. These were “traditional” marriage protesters toting signs like “Marriage=1 Man + 1 Woman” and the old cliché classic “It’s ADAM AND EVE not ADAM AND STEVE”. They were all harassing the other group of protesters with “God Loves All” and “Why is MY marriage any business of yours?” signs. The pro-gay group was, however, considerably smaller.

“I say we make them all puke with righteous anger.” Odette suggested brightly.

I laughed and we both, indeed, marched up next to the protesters and started a make-out session in front of them. As expected, they started hurling Bible quotes and condemning us.

“Yeah, like we want to see your wrinkled old asses fuckin’!” I shouted at them. With that, we turned away and walked back to the apartment, giggling like school girls.

 

We got back to the apartment around 3pm. Full of adrenaline and a pound of pork and beef, I collapsed on the couch. Odette was checking her phone. Her smile faded instantly and she hunted for the remote, coming to sit down beside me.

“Hadim said to turn on the TV.” Odette said.

“What channel?” I asked, somehow knowing the answer before she said it.

“Doesn’t matter.” Her eyes didn’t meet mine.

She turned on the television and we immediately saw footage of Capitol Hill. Police cars, military trucks, and flagged limos alike crowded the outside, sirens blaring.

“This is turning out to be one of the most devastating terrorist attacks in US history, just a day after the anniversary of the Twin Tower attacks. This is truly shaping up to be America’s bloodiest day.”

The news reporters continued, but I was no longer hearing them. You read of these things happening in other countries, but wouldn’t dream of it happening here. But this was one domino in the chain that had been collapsing for a long time. The San Andreas Fault earthquake that toppled nuclear plants, releasing radiation into the atmosphere…climate change so drastically changing the planet that certain kinds of fish and wildlife were going extinct…the outstanding heat in places of the US that were making cities literally impossible to live in.

But this was the dynamite at the end of the trail of gunpowder.

That night, I texted June back and forth, trying to convince her that this wasn’t just a terrorist attack. Fundamentalists in the Middle East were migrating north out of the blistering heat, taking pot shots at the UK and France. Somehow, I doubted they were involved. Capitol Hill was by no means undefended. This had to be calculated, involving someone on the inside…

The next thing gone were jobs for women. Protests were ended before they began. The riots broke out, people vandalizing and spray-painting slurs on business run by LGBT owners. People began disappearing. June’s own mother had gone off the grid, either taken or gone underground. Trashfire shaming riots were staged, with the owners of lingerie, adult novelty, and jewelry stores kneeling, wearing burlap sacks on their head saying “SHAME” while men with guns rampaged their store properties, tearing apart window decorations and burning bras, magazines, sex toys, any other artifact that “they” felt was obscene and illegal.

That’s what we knew them as, “they”, before we really found out who they were. Odette and I left for the border on foot, knowing that they probably knew our car down to the make and model. It was desperate times. We stowed away on trains to Maine with other escapees, but it was no time for trading names.

We had actually gotten to the border passing when we were caught. One moment we were shivering cold and tired, but still in good spirits that we had made it. But then the lights flared in front of us, under the overpass. The truck stopped and two men in black with machine rifles swung out. We started running, but it was too late and we were too fatigued. I collapsed, still holding hands with Odette, but the footsteps were getting closer. They closed in, Odette screaming as one of them hoisted her up.

“Moira! _MOIRA_! I LOVE YOU!!” she yelled, her voice breaking.

I struggled to yell back but one of them had pulled me up by the ribs. The last thing I saw before I was knocked out was Odette being carried away on the back of a Guardian.

 

_Aunt Lydia_

I was substituting for an ill teacher that day. Strictly speaking, as the principal, I didn’t have to substitute classes, but it was easier than hiring one from a secular school district. Besides, those ones always had something to report about the Hand of God Charter School, that we weren’t teaching an “accredited curriculum fit to Pennsylvania education standards.” I just knew that it was a code phrase for teaching evolution and other such corrupting nonsense. We didn’t have many students do to the progression of the infertility plague throughout the 90s. A majority of the students were sons and daughters of Sons of Jacob members and I had sworn to them to keep them safe from persecution by the state.

The students worked in silence as I reviewed some graded papers I saw in the teacher’s desk. This was mostly a 90-100% average grading class, though there was always the lazy doodler getting below 80s, which was the passing grade for this institution. There would no limp-handed steering of children skating by with 72% passing grades like in the godless state schools. When I was in school, the instructors smacked students’ hands with a ruler until they were bright red, like the skin of a cherry. There was truth within God’s Word to “spare the rod, spoil the child.” All of these spoiled liberal atheists preaching about how spanking and caning is child abuse, just showing how much we need to do it all the more to ensure good, traditional values are instilled within these children.

The decline of our country began in 1973, when they passed Roe v. Wade, giving whores and degenerates license to murder innocent children. I had my qualms with birth control, but I conceded with the fact that it helped women, along with steadfast prayer, to alleviate the pain of monthly periods. But I adored women who refused pain relievers and birth control. They were true women of God, suffering for the cause. Because they bleed, they were able to bear children. Women should be thanking God for the pain, not moaning like wretches. But the allowance for abortion would bring about a punishment from God. My mother sobbed the night the law had passed, telling me that this would be the end of humanity.

“He’s going to punish us. He’ll cast a darkness over the nation until we return to the light.” she had told me.

 

After lunch, I was checking my messages on my phone. A friend from the meeting hall had texted me. It was a brief message, with no follow-up: “Turn on CNN.”

Puzzled, I looked around to the busy students now doing their Bible study worksheets. I had just come from lunch and the nearest TV was in the lounge. It wasn’t to be used except in emergencies. But I had a feeling that it was of the utmost importance to check it out.

“I’ll be back in a few minutes.” I said, handing the class roster over to Johnson. “Tally the ones who talk in my absence.”

I opened the door and went down to the teacher’s lounge. The other teachers were already there watching CNN. They were all whispering excitedly.

“And why are you are congregating here like this is an office water cooler?” I asked them.

“Mrs. Bishop, it’s happening. It’s finally happening! Oh, praised be!” said Mrs. McClemmon in a whisper.

I turned to the screen. The news reporter was talking about the fishery crisis on the West Coast. I stood there in confusion until I saw it.

The news reporter was wearing the Eye. The Golden Eye broach that we had been told would be worn when the revolution begun. Several news anchors were Sons of Jacob members. How had they been told then?

“Alright, alright. It’s very exciting. But we have to remain inconspicuous.” I uttered to them under my breath.

They all agreed and we silently returned to our classrooms.

I sat for the next two hours, trying not to cry at my desk.

We would be saved. Mankind would be saved.

This was God’s Work.

 

The meeting hall in Holyoke was near the outskirts of the town, almost in the cornfields. On the surface, it looked like an austere church. Grandeur wasn’t the goal in deciding the look for our meeting hall, it was the invisibility. This church’s location was off the beaten track, past a farmhouse and water tower. You’d need instructions to know how to get here and that’s the way we intended it to be.

The first floor was unremarkable. It was a tiny congregation hall, seated 100 people comfortably, maybe 130 in a crisis. But the pews were hardly used, because the upstairs was the façade to ward off state officials or pranksters coming to cause trouble. The real meeting hall was downstairs and down the steel ladder to vast bunker underneath. The property was once owned by a doomsday prepper, one of those nuts that thought humanity would be saved by hoarding a shopping market’s worth of nonperishable canned green beans. I never knew what happened to the man, but I knew better than to ask questions of the higher ranking members of the church.

Down in the main prayer room, pews were in uniform rows, equidistant, allowing for people to walk through the aisles. There was no podium, only a pedestal on which set the Holy Bible, a large ivory-covered one, its golden-edged pages glistening in the bright fluorescent light. So, on that day, we got on my knees and prayed for deliverance.

“Lord God of mercy, may you bless the soldiers with valor on this day of days.” I said, my hands clasped in front of me.

“May the Lord open. So mote it be.” chorused the women around me.

“Lord God of mercy, may your followers be blessed in abundance upon this day of reckoning.”

“May the Lord open. So mote it be.”

“Lord God of mercy, let the wicked be lain to the soil to endure your final judgment.”

“May the Lord open. So mote it be.”

“Lord God of mercy, cast your light over us so that we may do good works and live without sin.”

“May the Lord open. So mote it be.”

We did this for hours, incrementally checking the radio for news developments. Finally, at half past three, we heard the initial reports. It interrupted a gospel song, “Sorry to disrupt your listening, but this is a national emergency message. I regret to inform you that the United States Congress in D.C. is currently under attack by a group of armed assailants. Latest reports entail that at least 200 representatives have been confirmed as deceased. As one witness testimony claims, over twenty men in black ski-masks and black uniforms start shooting from the gallery. Deaths are still being reported. God help us all.”

“Praised be…” I mused, my voice thick with joyous tears.

 

_Serena_

 

I paced back and forth in the living room that day, too adrenalized with fear to sit down. Fred had left for the mission three hours ago. The specifics of the entire mission were need-to-know only, so I had been left out of the loop. Normally, Fred is forth-coming with me about these things so I was angry when he wouldn’t tell me.

“Serena, there’s a possibility that this mission will fail. And if it does, the savages will stop at nothing to torture information out of us and our families. Trust in God to deliver us and bring up Gilead.”

“I do trust in God. But it is so selfish to want you safe?” I told him.

He took my hands in his, holding me close.

“As long as I have God, I will be safe. If I should die, I’ll be a martyr for the cause. But I will try, through hell and high water, to come back to you, Serena.” he promised.

He kissed me as the tears rolled down my face.

“I love you.” I said as he prepared to leave.

“As I love you, dear. Relax, love. God is with us.”

And he was gone. I couldn’t watch him driving away. I didn’t want this to be the last time I saw him.

I tried to busy myself. I watered the flowers outside. The hedges were overgrown, but I was a menace with the lawn-trimmer. Such devices are best left to men. It was only when I wanted to do them that chores were few and far between. I had already emptied the trashcans last week, vacuumed the rugs, pre-cooked meals for the week. Would we even live here for the rest of the week?

If this succeeded, if Gilead was born out of this, humanity would survive. Women would embrace their biological destiny and be free from their perversions or the perversions of men. Some of the details I was a little dubious about, like the women to be acquired in order to impregnate them. But they don’t realize how serious this is. They’ve been brainwashed into believing they can wait. Wait until they finish college, wait until their 30s, wait till they meet the right man…but there was no time to waste. The world was an hourglass turned upside down, the sand pouring out with every squandered second…

I was even so desperate for something to fill my time, I called my mother, but the maid she’d gone out for a bridge game at Mrs. Mcfarland’s. So, I sat on the couch and resumed knitting the blanket I had started a few days before while listening to the gospel radio station. These days, the gospels songs were becoming all too contemporary. Back in school, we were told not to listen to songs with heavy drums and electric guitar because it harkened to the day of African tribal music used to summon demons. I wasn’t quite so hindering to those notions – I just didn’t like the music.

What was Fred doing now? Probably schmoozing the constituents in the Congress and Senate. There had to be a way in and that was through rubbing elbows with sympathetic bureaucrats. These were my speculations, anyway. Though Fred had hinted to have a few fellow SOJ members in the National Guard, but I couldn’t tell if he was sincere or just trying to placate me. I just wondered how they were get through security with the equipment they needed, without being detected.

To think, by the end of the night, we’d all be American traitors.

But in time, they would see. They would understand the movement’s necessity. Selfishness had no place in a world crisis.

The gospel music suddenly halted in the middle of its third chorus. ““Sorry to disrupt your listening, but this is a national emergency message. I regret to inform you that the United States Congress in D.C. is currently under attack by a group of armed assailants. Latest reports entail that at least 200 representatives have been confirmed as deceased. As one witness testimony claims, over twenty men in black ski-masks and black uniforms start shooting from the gallery. Deaths are still being reported. God help us all.”

I placed my knitting down, my hands shaking too much. I kneeled on the carpet beside the coffee, enough room to prostrate myself, head to the floor, arms reaching out in front of me.

“Dear God, deliver us from sorrow. Fill us with peace and thy work be completed. I am not worthy of your grace, but I ask you to protect my husband and the team from harm.” My tears dripped into the carpet fibers. Noah, our golden retriever, rested beside me, sensing my distress. “Oh Almighty God…let us prevail. Let us pave the way to your rightful nation. Fill us with your divine light and guide us to Gilead…”

“Latest updates from the Capitol Hill tragedy, a large-scale explosion from the White House has just been reported. Attempts to evacuate the President, his family, and the Cabinet have failed, both helicopters have been drained of fuel. No knowledge of the damages is known as of yet. We’ll keep you posted as more information is discovered.”

I cried harder, pleading for mercy.

“Bring my husband back to me, please, oh Lord…”

I don’t know how long I stayed in the position. I didn’t even feel the strain of my position, my veins were bubbling with electricity. I felt like a live wire, my face hot, nose running from sobbing so hard. Noah whined, pawing at me, concerned. Finally, I laid on my side, welcoming Noah’s comfort.

“Breaking news from the Capitol…the President has been confirmed dead along with his Cabinet members. His wife and children, however, have not been seen in the rubble. They are suspecting that they may have been kidnapped, but all is inconclusive under DNA forensics is performed. My God…what is happening…” the newscaster’s voice broke as he went off air.

My cell phone rang.

I scrambled up out of the floor like a shot and ran into the kitchen where I had left it on the counter. It was Fred’s number! I pressed the green phone icon. 

“Fred!” I nearly shouted into the receiver.

“Serena, darling.” his voice said on the other line. My tears were now of relief. “We did it. We really did it. Gilead has finally begun.”

My smile was so wide it was hurting my cheekbones. “Praised be.”

 


	12. Lovely

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They shunned Noah for building the ark. And then the ones who condemned him would drown in the floods. 
> 
> Only there was no ark to embark on and we were all left to tread water as the seas rose.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FIVE MORE DAYS TILL SEASON 3
> 
> [other stuff I've written](https://vocal.media/authors/cd-turner)
> 
> [Twitter](https://twitter.com/LadyChelseaofVA)

  1. Lovely



 

“ _But I know someday I'll make it out of here_

_Even if it takes all night or a hundred years_

_Need a place to hide, but I can't find one near_

_Wanna feel alive outside I can't fight my fear_

_Isn't it lovely? All alone_

_Heart made of glass, my mind of stone_

_Tear me to pieces, skin to bone_

_Hello. Welcome home._ ”

-“lovely” by Billie Eillish and Khalid

 

_Rita_

 

The news made it through the Martha grapevine like wildfire. The descriptions of what they did to Alma nearly made me vomit. I didn’t know whether I was admiring of Nick’s actions or condemning. It’s been so engrained into this culture to conform to the opinions of the many rather than the few. There were Marthas at the Tribunal screaming diatribes at the Handmaid. I wonder if they did it to avoid suspicion or they really were servants of Gilead through and through.

Serena Joy had left for the hospital, leaving me and Heather in the house. The thought occurred to me to try to smuggle her out one way or another, but June and her baby’s escape had been carefully planned. No, there would be Eyes and Guardians patrolling everywhere.

I had to wonder if they had arrested Nick or just executed him on the spot. Thinking back to Commander Cushing’s tyranny, the Martha shot in the street, the neighbors hung from tree limbs…

The shot hadn’t been fatal, it was only in the knee. Still, Waterford wouldn’t let Nick die without making him suffer. If Nick was smart, he’d be running like hell to his Whirlwind and getting the fuck out of dodge. Though I’ve heard rumors that the cars were all chipped with GPS trackers. I've also heard that the cattle tags they brand the Handmaids with had trackers as well. June had cut off the tip of her ear only to have the tag pierce her opposite ear. No, I don’t think those rumors were true. They believed the torture, isolation, and deprivation culled the herd enough to not need extra surveillance.

I went about my business as usual. I washed the dishes, cleaned the tables, and mopped the floors. While dusting the desks in the sitting room, I came across some document files. They were wedged half-folded beneath a ceramic angel tchotchke. My curiosity getting the better of me, I unfolded them. I couldn’t understand even a gist of what was written, the legal language lost on me. I noticed that the papers were randomly numbered, like they were several pages of many documents scrambled together. Then I noticed the writing on the back. It was a journal of sorts, dated by weeks.

 

“Apr 27

 

I am scared for my life in this house. I’m halfway tempted to ask to be escorted out. But God is testing my faith. I must not be fearful. He will deliver justice in due time.

 

May 2

 

Mom isn’t doing well. Marthas at the RH says she’s lapsing out of reality more often. I can hardly visit her anymore. CW doesn’t trust me. He’s grown more abusive, if that’s possible. Last night, he rolled over top of me, drunk. I tried pushing him away, but he had his way with me. He’s never done that before. Not to me.

 

May 8

 

As much as I hated her, I want O and N back. CW at least took his anger out on her rather than me. O was braver than me, knowing that she had to get N out. I hope she’s safe. Both of them.

 

May 13

GB did the unthinkable. CW is incapacitated. I have to get out while I still have a chance.”

 

The last entry was from today.

How the hell did she expect to get out? She was more than Handmaid, she was a Wife. If a Wife was seen trying to escape, it would mar the reputations of the Commanders even further and cause further security measures.

An inkling of clairvoyance sparked in my mind. I put the papers back under the angel and made for my room in the basement. It was a dinky room full of boxes that contained objects that were supposed to be burned. Books, old clothes, magazines, photos. When I was posted at this house, I was surprised to learn that my room would be full of the heretical things that could get my hands chopped off. It was like Waterford dangling meat before a starving lion. Indeed, I did peruse the books and photos in the dead of night. Maybe the Commander thought it negligible.

Maybe it was leverage.

Nevertheless, I stole down to my wardrobe, opening the double oak doors. Sure enough, one of my dresses with matching bonnet were missing.

 

_Serena_

 

Rita’s outfit was large on me, but it did the job. No one would double-take a Martha walking down the street. This was foolish, beyond foolish, but it seemed that my name and face had died in the media since the Canada fiasco, so there was no inside source to elaborate on our excursion. Only a select few households had radios and televisions for news. Such forms of media weren’t necessary when the Commanders already had information at their disposal.

 Or if they did recognize me, they said nothing. Was there some kind of solidarity now among women in Gilead? Some unspoken code? My books had been famous, or at the very least, infamous. I prayed for women to embrace their biological destiny. I sacrificed my reputation to bring the truth to the people and they shunned me for it.

They shunned Noah for building the ark. And then the ones who condemned him would drown in the floods.

Only there was no ark to embark on and we were all left to tread water as the seas rose.

Right idea, wrong execution. My vision of a nation where women could fulfill their purpose in the safety of Guardians of the Faithful. Yet, Wives were not even given dispensation for their duties in serving their husband. The Aunts had more rights than us, able to read and write and teach. I had my yarn and my memories. I didn’t know that by paving the road for Gilead would end up with me sacrificing my voice.

It occurred to me that I had no idea where I was. There were no road signs, just numbers and the occasional pictograph representation of district ends and beginnings. Individual letters were allowed, full words were not. So there would be signs that read “D82” with an arrow pointing right or left. These were for the drivers, though, since Handmaids, Wives, and Marthas were always taken by car to places farther than the market.

This was a mistake. I had no map, no idea where Gilead ended and elsewhere began.

Then I saw it. A miniscule red arrow marked on a crosswalk beacon. It was no bigger than my fingernail, so it was conspicuously hidden. It said to go across the road to the other sidewalk. So I did.

I maintained my gait, not wanting to look suspicious. I looked for the symbol as I approached the upcoming beacon. Left. I walked the sidewalk up to the next crossing. Straight across.

This continued for many more blocks. I kept my head down, only allowing my eyes to look for the red marks. Left. Right. Across. Across again. D72. D71. D70. At the corner of D68, I panicked, not seeing any corresponding red mark on any signs. I kept my face plain, not allowing it to betray me by showing fear. Finally, I found it. A dot on the handle of a flower shop. I made a show of checking out the window displays, the vibrant arrays of bluebells and chrysanthemums, white lilies and various household potted plants. Then as casually as I dared, I opened the door to go inside.

The florist was an Economan wearing the cheap cotton wool outfits regulated to those districts.

“Blessed be the fruit. May I help you today?” he asked.

“May the Lord open. Yes, I would love to know if you had any red roses or carnations. The Handmaid in my family’s household may be pregnant.” I said convincingly enough.

“Praised be His Divine Light. Let me show you some newly bloomed roses in the back.”

I followed him to the back, through a heavy weighted door.

As soon as I entered, it shut closed behind me and clicked ominously. My breath caught in my chest as my eyes took in the half-dozen rifles pointed directly at me.

These weren’t Guardians though. These weren’t even Eyes.

_Infiltrators. Terrorists._

“Well, well, well…” said the foremost gun-toting soldier. They were all in black in balaclavas that only showed their eyes. They had somehow snatched up Guardian uniforms and weapons, probably by silently assassination. “In for a penny, out for a fuckin’ billion. This one is no Martha, boys. This is Commander Waterford’s little cunt.”

He had a thick Southern drawl, the ringleader. His eyes were gray, like pebbled beach stones…hard, unyielding to pressure.

“Put her in the back. The Lieutenant will want to talk to her personally.” he said, lowering his rifle. His comrades followed suit.

“Please…please…I wanted to escape…I’m trying to escape…” I tried begging them as they seized me under the armpits. They led me out of a back entrance, directly into the back of a black van.

“Oh, you’ll escape all right.” said the southerner. “Nothing’s blessed down where you’re goin’, sweetheart. Blessed be the fight.”

The doors slammed.


End file.
